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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

It  is  not  only  like  Irving,  but  like  his  books ; and,  though  he 
looks  as  his  books  read,  and  looks  like  the  name  of  his  cottage,  — 
Sunnyside, — and  looks  like  what  the  world  thinks  of  him,  yet  a 
painter  might  have  missed  this  look,  and  still  have  made  what  many 
would  consider  a likeness.  He  sits  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand, 
with  the  genial,  unconscious,  courtly  composure  of  expression  that 
he  habitually  wears ; and  still  there  is  visible  the  couchant  humor 
and  philosophic  inevitableness  of  perception  which  form  the  strong 
undercurrent  of  his  genius.  The  happy  temper  and  the  strong 
intellect  of  Irving ; the  joyously  indolent  man  and  the  arousably 
brilliant  author,  are  both  there.  — N.  P.  Willis* 


2Tt)£:  ^icaticmu  Classics 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 

LIFE  OF  OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 


WITH  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 

BY 

R.  ADELAIDE  WITHAM 

CLASSICAL  HIGH  SCHOOL,  PROVIDENCE,  RHODE  ISLAND 


b««tok  library,- 

eaU^TRUT  HILL,  MASS. 

1917 

ALLYN  AND  BACON 

Boston  Neb}  gorfe  ffil)icago 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
ALLYN  AND  BACON. 


EDITOR’S  PREFACE, 


In  preparing  Irving’s  Life  of  Goldsmith  for  use  in  the  schools, 
the  editor  has  tried  to  remember  that  the  hook  is  prescribed  for 
reading  and  not  for  exhaustive  study.  So  full  is  the  text,  how- 
ever, of  allusions  to  persons,  places,  and  events  not  within  the 
range, of  the  pupil’s  knowledge,  and  often  too  obscure  to  be  worth 
more  than  a passing  attention,  that  the  making  of  notes  seemed 
inevitable.  Some  matters  have  been  explained  which  the  pupil 
might  find  for  himself  in  books  of  reference.  This  is,  of  course, 
a pedagogical  heresy  ; but  assault  and  battery  upon  the  grace  and 
charm  of  this  biography  of  a “lovable,  garret-haunting  Bohe- 
mian” would  seem  a literary  crime  which  the  editor  does  not 
care  to  aid  and  abet. 

The  suggestive  notes  and  topics  at  the  end  of  this  edition,  it  is 
hoped,  may  stimulate  the  pupil  to  reflect  a little  as  he  reads  and 
to  note  the  contribution  of  each  chapter  to  the  whole  work. 

Biographies  of  Irving  are  always  within  the  reach  of  classes. 
Therefore,  instead  of  a dilution  of  what  has  already  been  written 
by  others,  an  arrangement  of  topics  has  been  made  with  refer- 
ences to  the  standard  life  of  Irving  by  his  nephew,  Pierre  Irving. 
A shorter  biography  is  that  by  Charles  Dudley  Warner.  Inter- 
esting appreciations  of  Irving  may  be  found  in  Howells’s  My 
Literary  Passions,  Curtis’s  Literary  and  Social  Essays,  Barrett 
Wendell’s  Literary  History  of  America,  and  Walter  C.  Bronson’s 
History  of  American  Literature.  Thackeray’s  tribute  to  Irving  in 
Nil  Nisi  Bonum.  of  his  Roundabout  Papers,  ought  to  be  read 
without  fail. 


iii 


IV 


EDirOlfS  PREFACE. 


It  is  a disadvantage  to  a teaclier  to  be  obliged  to  present  to  a 
class,  recitation  by  recitation,  a book  whose  beauty  lies  in  its 
loose,  rambling  structure.  To  suggest  some  sort  of  unity  for 
each  assignment,  the  following  arrangement  is  submitted:  — 


Chapter 

I-IL 

III-V. 


VI-IX. 

X-XI. 

XII-XIV. 


XV-XVII. 


XVIII-XIX. 

XX-XXII. 

XXIII-XXVIIL 


XXIX-XXXIV. 


XXXV-XXXVI. 


XXXVII-XXXVIII. 


XXXIX-XLI. 

XLII-XLV. 


Birth,  Boyhood,  and  Education. 

Attempts  to  choose  a Profession. 

Makeshifts  at  gaining  a Livelihood. 

Early  Struggles  in  London. 

Early  Successes  in  London. 

First  Introduction  to  Dr.  Johnson  and  the 
Literary  Club. 

The  Discovery,  Publication,  and  Reception  of 
The  Vicar  of  Wakefield. 

Goldsmith  in  London  Society. 

The  Ups  and  Downs  of  the  Year  1767-1768. 
The  Presentation  of  The  Good-natured  Man. 
“Burning  the  Candle  at  Both  Ends.” 

The  Publication  of  The  Deserted  Village. 

The  Jessamy  Bride. 

Goldsmith  in  Paris. 

Inferior  Literary  Work  between  1770  and  1772. 
Anecdotes  of  Goldsmith  and  his  Friends. 
Goldsmith  at  the  Mercy  of  the  Club. 

A Holiday  in  the  Country. 

The  Presentation  of  She  Stoops  to  Cofiquer. 
Literary  Jealousies  in  Goldsmith’s  Day. 
Johnson.,  Boswell^  and  Goldsmith. 

“Toil  without  Hope:  Dissipation  without 

Gayety.” 

The  Writing  of  Retaliation. 

The  Death  of  Goldsmith. 

Memorials  to  Goldsmith. 

A Summary  of  the  Causes  of  his  Successes  and 
Failures. 


It  is  hoped  that  the  pupil  may  not  be  required  to  learn  any- 
thing which  the  editor  has  put  into  this  volume;  only  that  he 
may  be  introduced  a little  more  cordially,  by  means  of  the  notes, 
to  two  delightful  personalities,  that  of  Irving  and  that  of  Gold- 
smith. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

The  Works  of  Irving,  and  American  Literature  contem- 
porary WITH  Irving . vi 

Introduction:  Life  of  Washington  Irving  . . . . vii 

Irving’s  Preface  to  the  Life  of  Goldsmith  . . , 1 

Contents  of  the  Life  of  Goldsmith  ....  3 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 9 

A Word  about  Irving’s  Life  of  Goldsmith  ....  283 

Notes 286 

Suggestive  Questions  and  Topics  304 


V 


Works  of  Irving.  S Contemporary  American  Literature. 


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VI 


1852.  Uncle  Tom’s  Cahin^  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  (1812- 
1896). 

1865.  WolferVs  Boost.  1855.  Leaves  of  Grass.,  Walt  Whitman  (1819-1892). 

1866-1859.  The  Life  of  Washington.  1856.  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic,  Motley  (1814- 

1877). 


INTRODUCTION 


LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING  (1783-1869). 

Birth. 

New  York,  April  3,  1783. 

Named  for  George  Washington  (I,  i).i 
• Parents. 

Father ; William  Irving,  born  of  a long  line  of  Scotch  Covenanters. 
Mother : Sarah  Saunders  of  Cornwall. 

They  were  married  in  1761  and  embarked  for  America  in  1763 
(I,  II). 

Education. 

At  four  years  of  age  sent  to  a dame  school,  where,  he  says, 

“ I made  little  progress  beyond  the  alphabet.” 

Later  attended  Romaine’s  School.  (See  anecdotes  in  I,  ii.) 

Did  not  have  a college  course,  so  his  education  stopped  at  sixteen. 
Study  of  Law. 

At  sixteen  entered  a New  York  law  office. 

“His  course  here  was  marked  by  remarkable  proficiency  in 
belles-lettres,  but  very  slender  advancement  in  the  dry  tech- 
nicalities of  the  practice  ” (I,  n). 

First  Voyage  up  the  Hudson. 

The  first  author  to  describe  the  beauty  of  the  river.  Read  Irving’s 
account  of  his  trip  (I,  ii),  and  note  its  resemblance  to  passages 
in  The  Sketch-Book. 

Earliest  Publication,  1802. 

Contributions  to  The  Morning  Chronicle.^  signed  “Jonathan  Old 
style.” 

Predominating  characteristic  of  these  sketches  was  whimsical 
humor. 


^ References  in  parentheses  are  to  volumes  and  chapters  of  Pierre  Irving’s  Life  of 
Irving. 


vii 


LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Frontier  Travels  in  1803. 

Important  as  furnishing  material  for  future  writings. 

See  extracts  from  his  journal  at  this  time  (I,  iii). 

First  Journey  Abroad,  1804. 

Undertaken  on  account  of  his  health. 

Travels  through  France,  Spain,  Italy,  Switzerland,  and  England. 
(For  anecdotes  and  adventures,  read  the  letters  in  I,  iv-ix.) 
The  interest  here  centres  in  the  adventures  attendant  upon 
European  travel  in  those  days,  upon  the  narrow  escapes  of 
Irving  from  romantic  dangers,  upon  the  honors  paid  to  him  by 
great  men  whom  iie  met,  and  upon  the  style  of  these  accounts, 
which  are  a prophecy  of  The  Sketch-Book  and  The  Alhambra. 

Life  in  New  York,  1806-1814. 

Foundation  of  the  club  known  as  “The  Nine  Worthies”  (I,  xi). 
Admission  to  the  Bar,  1806. 

Publication  of  Salmagundi.,  1807-1808.  Reprinted  in  London, 
1811. 

Romance  of  Irving  and  Mathilda  Hoffman  (I,  xiv). 

Publication  of  The  History  of  Neio  York^  by  “ Diedrich  Knicker- 
bocker,” 1809  (1,  xv). 

Editor  of  Analectic  Magazine.,  1813-1814. 

Appointed  aide-de-camp,  to  Governor  Tompkins  at  end  of  war  with 
England,  and  given  the  title  of  Colonel  (I,  xx). 

Life  Abroad,  1815-1831  (ist  period). 

1815.  In  London,  attending  to  the  interests  of  the  publishing  firm 
of  P.  Irving  & Co. 

Preparing  a second  edition  of  the  Knickerbocker  History., 
with  designs  by  Washington  Allston. 

Received  everywhere  as  an  American  writer  of  rank 
(I,  XXI-XXIIl). 

1817.  Travels  through  Scotland  (I,  xxiv). 

1818.  Failure  of  firm  of  P.  Irving  & Co.,  and  Irving’s  decision  to 

devote  himself  to  literature. 

1819.  Publication,  in  New  York,  of  The  Sketch-Book  of  Geoffrey 

Crayon  (I,  xxvi). 

1820.  The  Sketch-Book  published  in  London  (I,  xxvii). 
1820-1821.  Goes  to  Paris  (II,  i-ii). 

Begins  Tales  of  a Traveller. 

Begins  Bracebridge  Hall. 

1821.  Returns  to  England  for  coronation  of  George  IV  (II,  ii). 


LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


IX 


1822.  Publication  of  Bracebridge  Hall  (II,  iv). 

Travels  in  Germany  and  Austria,  spending  the  winter  in 
Dresden  (II,  v-viii). 

1822-1824.  Lives  in  Paris  (II,  ix-x). 

Attempts  to  remodel  French  plays  for  the  English  stage. 
Prepares  a second  volume  of  The  Sketch-Book. 

At  work  upon  Tales  of  a Traveller. 

1824.  Returns  to  London  (II,  xii). 

Publishes  Tales  of  a Traveller. 

1825.  Lives  in  Paris  and  Bordeaux  (II,  xiii). 

Working  on  American  Essaijs^  which  were  never  printed. 
1826-1827.  Goes  to  Spain  as  attach^  of  the  American  Legation. 
Working  on  the  Life  of  Columbus. 

Sketching  the  Conquest  of  Granada  (II,  xiv). 

1828.  Publication  of  Life  and  Voyages  of  Columbus. 

Travelling  through  Spain. 

Working  on  Conquest  of  Granada  (II,  xv-xvi). 

1829.  Publication  of  Conquest  of  Granada  (II,  xx). 

Resides  part  of  the  year  in  the  Alhambra  (II,  xxiv). 
Appointed  Secretary  of  Legation  to  London  (II,  xxiii). 
Arrives  in  London  in  October. 

1830.  Year  spent  in  London. 

Receives  King’s  Medal  from  the  Royal  Academy. 

Degree  of  LL.D.  conferred  by  Oxford  (II,  xxv). 

1831.  Resigns  secretaryship  of  Legation  to  London  to  devote  him- 

self more  closely  to  literature  (II,  xxvi). 

Life  in  New  York,  1832-1842. 

1832.  Returns  to  New  York  after  an  absence  of  seventeen  years. 
Publication  of  The  Alhambra  or  The  Spanish  Sketch-Book 

(III,  I). 

1832-1833.  Journeys  through  the  Western  and  Southern  States 
(HI,  II). 

1835.  Publication  of  Tour  on  the  Prairies  (III,  iii). 

Purchase  of  Sunnyside. 

Publication  of  Astoria  (III,  iv). 

1837.  Publication  of  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville  (III,  v). 
Visit  of  Louis  Napoleon  at  Sunnyside. 

Declines  mayoralty  of  New  York  City. 

Declines  appointment  to  the  Cabinet  of  Van  Buren. 

1838.  Begins  a history  of  Mexico,  but  surrenders  the  theme  to 

Prescott  (III,  vi). 


K 


LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  lEVING. 


1839.  Eegular  contributor  to  the  Knickerbocke?'  Magazme. 

1840.  Publishes  biographical  sketch  of  Goldsmith  for  Harper’s 

Library  (III,  vii). 

Life  Abroad,  1842-1846  (2d  period). 

1842.  Appointed  Minister  to  Spain  through  the  influence  of 

Daniel  Webster.  Accompanied  by  Alexander  Hamilton 
as  Secretary  of  the  Legation  (III,  ix). 

Reception  at  Court  of  St.  James  (III,  x). 

Established  in  Madrid  in  July.  (See  letter  describing  his 
reception  by  the  Queen  of  Spain,  in  III,  xi.) 

Working  on  Life  of  Washington. 

1843.  See  letters  (in  III,  xiii-xv),  giving  delightful  sketches  of  his 

life  in  Madrid,  of  the  royal  family,  and  of  the  insurrec- 
tions and  the  dangers. 

Excursion  to  Versailles  and  Paris  for  health  (III,  xvi). 

“ My  heart  yearns  for  home;  and  as  I have  now  probably 
turned  the  last  corner  in  life,  and  my  remaining  years  are 
growing  scanty  in  number,  I begrudge  every  one  that  I am 
obliged  to  pass  separated  from  my  cottage  and  my  kindred.” 

1844.  See  letters  (in  HI,  xvii-xix),  describing  the  political  excite- 

ments in  Madrid,  in  which  Irving  played  an  important 
part. 

Temporary  leave  of  absence  on  account  of  health,  and 
excursion  to  Paris  and  London. 

Returns  to  Paris  and  visits  King  Louis  Philippe.  (Read 
letters  in  III,  xx. ) 

1845.  Returns  to  Madrid.  (Read  routine  of  life  here,  in  letters 

dated  March  27,  1845,  and  August  9,  1845  ; III,  xxi.) 
Goes  to  Paris  and  resigns  his  ministry  to  Madrid. 

1846.  Visits  London  on  diplomatic  business. 

Returns  to  Madrid  to  await  successor. 

Fond  leave-taking  of  the  Queen  of  Spain  (III,  xxii). 

Sails  from  London  for  New  York  in  September. 

The  evening  of  life  is  fast  drawing  upon  me ; still  I hope 
to  get  back  among  my  friends  while  yet  there  is  a little 
sunshine. left.” 

Last  Years  at  Sunnyside. 

1847-1848.  Beautifying  his  home  at  Sunnyside  (IV,  i). 

“The  little  old-fashioned  stone  mansion,  all  made  up  of 
gable  ends,  and  as  full  of  angles  and  corners  as  an  old 
cocked  hat.” 


LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


XI 


Revising  his  works  for  the  publication  of  a complete  edi- 
tion. 

1849.  Publication  of  Life  of  Goldsmith  (IV,  iii). 

Publication  of  Mahomet  and  his  Successors,  Vol  I. 

1850.  Publication  of  Mahomet  and  his  Successors,  Vol.  II. 

“If  I only  had  ten  years  more  of  life!  I never  felt  more 
able  to  write!  I might  not  conceive  as  I did  in  earlier  days, 
when  I had  more  romance  of  feeling,  but  I could  execute 
with  more  rapidity  and  freedom.” 

1853.  Excursion  to  Washington  (IV,  vii).  Meets  Thackeray  by 
chance  on  the  train. 

“I  was  at  the  President’s  levee.  ...  I met  with  many 
interesting  people  there;  but  I had  no  chance  of  enjoying 
conversation  with  any  of  them,  . . . for  I had  to  shake 
hands  with  man,  woman,  and  child.  From  the  levee  I was 
hurried  away  to  a ball,  . . . where  the  system  of  hand- 
shaking began  again  and  I retreated  and  came  home.” 

Celebration  of  seventieth  birthday  (IV,  viii). 

“ I used  to  think  that  a man  of  seventy  must  have  sur- 
vived everything  worth  living  for ; that  with  him  the  silver 
cord  must  be  loosed,  the  wheel  broken  at  the  cistern ; that 
all  desire  must  fail  and  the  grasshopper  become  a burden. 
Yet  here  I find  myself,  unconscious  of  the  withering  influ- 
ence of  age,  still  strong  and  active,  my  sensibilities  alive, 
and  my  social  affections  in  full  vigor. 

“ Strange  that  a harp  of  a thousand  strings 
Should  keep  in  tune  so  long!  ” 

Working  on  IJfe  of  Washington. 

Excursion  to  Baltimore  to  examine  the  Washington  relics 
and  papers  kept  there.  (See  amusing  account  of  his  re- 
ception at  the  Irving  House  in  New  York ; IV,  xix.) 

1855.  Publication  of  Wolf  erf  s Roost  (IV,  xi). 

Publication  of  Life  of  Washington,  Vol.  I. 

1856-1859.  Continual  struggle  against  breaking  health. 

“ I do  not  fear  death,  but  I would  like  to  go  down  with  all 
sail  set.” 

(See  IV,  xiii-xviii,  which  give  more  of  Irving’s  real  self 
than  all  the  rest  of  the  biography.) 

Publication  of  Life  of  Washington,  Vols.  II- V. 

Extract  from  a letter  from  the  historian  Prescott  to  Irving, 
upon  the  publication  of  Vol.  IV  : — 


LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


xii 

“ Hitherto  we  have  only  seen  him  [Washington]  as  a sort 
of  marble  Colossus,  full  of  moral  greatness,  but  without  the 
touch  of  humanity  that  would  give  him  interest.  You  have 
known  how  to  give  the  marble  flesh  color,  that  brings  it  to 
the  resemblance  of  life.  No  one  — at  least,  I am  sure  no 
American  — could  read  the  last  volume  without  finding 
pretty  often  a blur  upon  the  page.” 

Death. 

November  28,  1859,  at  Sunnyside  (IV,  xviii). 

Extract  from  the  tribute  of  George  William  Curtis : — 

“On  the  day  of  his  burial,  unable  to  reach  Tarry  town  in 
time  for  the  funeral,  I came  down  the  shore  of  the  river  he 
loved.  As  we  darted  and  wound  along,  the  Catskills  were 
draped  in  sober  gray  mist,  not  hiding  them,  but  wreathing 
and  folding  and  lingering,  as  if  the  hills  were  heavy  with 
sympathetic,  but  not  unrelieved,  gloom.  Yet  far  away 
toward  the  south,  the  bank  on  which  his  home  lay,  was 
Sunnyside  still,  for  the  sky  was  cloudless  and  soft  with 
serene  sunshine.  I could  not  but  remember  his  last  words 
to  me,  more  than  a year  ago,  when  his  book  was  finished, 
and  his  health  was  failing : ‘ I am  getting  ready  to  go  ; I am 
shutting  up  my  doors  and  windows.’  And  I could  not  but 
feel  that  they  were  all  open  now,  and  bright  with  the  light 
of  eternal  morning.” 


[EVING’S  PREFACE  TO  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


In  the  course  of  a revised  edition  of  my  works  I have  come  to 
a biographical  sketch  of  Goldsmith,  published  several  years  since. 
It  was  written  hastily,  as  introductory  to  a selection  from  his 
writings;  and,  though  the  facts  contained  in  it  were  collected 
from  various  sources,  I was  chiefly  indebted  for  them  to  the 
voluminous  work  of  Mr.  James  Prior,  who  had  collected  and 
collated  the  most  minute  particulars  of  the  poet’s  history  with 
unwearied  research  and  scrupulous  fidelity;  but  had  rendered 
them,  as  I thought,  in  a form  too  cumbrous  and  overlaid  with 
details  and  disquisitions,  and  matters  uninteresting  to  the  general 
reader. 

When  I was  about  of  late  to  revise  my  biographical  sketch, 
preparatory  to  republication,  a volume  was  put  into  my  hands, 
recently  given  to  the  public  by  Mr.  John  Forster,  of  the  Inner 
Temple,  who,  likewise  availing  himself  of  the  labors  of  the  inde- 
fatigable Prior,  and  of  a few  new  lights  since  evolved,  has  pro- 
duced a biography  of  the  poet,  executed  with  a spirit,  a feeling, 
a grace,  and  an  eloquence,  that  leave  nothing  to  be  desired. 
Indeed  it  would  have  been  presumption  in  me  to  undertake  the 
subject  after  it  had  been  thus  felicitously  treated,  did  I not  stand 
committed  by  my  previous  sketch.  That  sketch  now  appeared 
too  meagre  and  insufficient  to  satisfy  public  demand ; yet  it  had 
to  take  its  place  in  the  revised  series  of  my  works  unless  some- 
thing more  satisfactory  could  be  substituted.  Under  these  cir- 

1 


2 IRVING'S  PREFACE  TO  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH. 

cumstances  I have  again  taken  up  the  subject,  and  gone  into  it 
with  more  fulness  than  formerly,  omitting  none  of  the  facts  which 
I considered  illustrative  of  the  life  and  character  of  the  poet,  and 
giving  them  in  as  graphic  a style  as  I could  command.  Still,  the 
hurried  manner  in  which  I have  had  to  do  this  amidst  the  press- 
ure of  other  claims  on  my  attention,  and  with  the  press  dogging 
at  my  heels,  has  prevented  me  from  giving  some  parts  of  the 
subject  the  thorough  handling  I could  have  wished.  Those  who 
would  like  to  see  it  treated  still  more  at  large,  with  the  addition 
of  critical  disquisitions  and  the  advantage  of  collateral  facts, 
would  do  well  to  refer  themselves  to  Mr.  Prior’s  circumstantial 
volumes,  or  to  the  elegant  and  discursive  pages  of  Mr.  Forster. 

For  my  own  part,  I can  only  regret  my  shortcomings  in  what 
to  me  is  a labor  of  love ; for  it  is  a tribute  of  gratitude  to  the 
memory  of  an  author  whose  writings  were  the  delight  of  my 
childhood,  and  have  been  a source  of  enjoyment  to  me  throughout 
life ; and  to  whom,  of  all  others,  I may  address  the  beautiful 
apostrophe  of  Dante  to  Virgil,  — = 

Tu  se’  lo  mio  maestro,  e ’1  mio  autore ; 

Tu  se’  solo  colui,  da  cu’  io  tolsi 
Lo  bello  stile,  che  m’  ha  fattc  onore. 

W.  L 

SuNNYSIDE,  Aug.  1,  1849. 


CONTENTS  OF  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

PAGE 

Birth  and  Parentage.  — Characteristics  of  the  Goldsmith  Eace.  — 
Poetical  Birthplace.  — Goblin  House.  — Scenes  of  Boyhood. 

— Lissoy. — ^ Picture  of  a Country  Parson.  — Goldsmith’s 
Schoolmistress.  — Byrne,  the  Village  Schoolmaster.  — Gold- 
smith’s Hornpipe  and  Epigram.  — Uncle  Contarine.  — School 
Studies  and  School  Sports.  — Mistakes  of  a Night  . . 9 

CHAPTER  II. 

Improvident  Marriages  in  the  Goldsmith  Family.  — Goldsmith  at 
the  University.  — Situation  of  a Sizer.  — Tyranny  of  Wilder, 
the  Tutor.  — Pecuniary  Straits.  — Street-ballads.  — College 
Riot.  — Gallows  Walsh.  — College  Prize.  — A Dance  inter- 
rupted   19 

CHAPTER  III. 

Goldsmith  rejected  by  the  Bishop.  — Second  Sally  to  see  the 
World. — Takes  Passage  for  America. — Ship  sails  without 
him.  — Return  on  Fiddle-back. — A Hospitable  Friend. — 

The  Counsellor 30 

CHAPTER  IV. 

Sallies  forth  as  a Law  Student.  — Stumbles  at  the  Outset.  — 
Cousin  Jane  and  the  Valentine.  — A Family  Oracle.  — Sallies 
forth  as  a Student  of  Medicine.  — Hocus-pocus  of  a Boarding- 
house.— Transformations  of  a Leg  of  Mutton.  — The  Mock 
Ghost.  — Sketches  of  Scotland.  — Trials  of  Toadyism.  — A 
Poet’s  Purse  for  a Continental  Tour 36 

CHAPTER  V. 

The  Agreeable  Fellow-passengers.  — Risks  from  Friends  picked 
up  by  the  Wayside.  — Sketches  of  Hull  and  the  Dutch.  — 

Shifts  while  a Poor  Student  at  Leyden.  — The  Tulip-specu- 
lation. — The  Provident  Flute.  — Sojourn  at  Paris.  — Sketch 
of  Voltaire.  — Travelling  Shifts  of  a Philosophic  Vagabond  . 45 

CHAPTER  VI. 

Landing  in  England.  — Shifts  of  a Man  without  Money. — The 
Pestle  and  Mortar.  — Theatricals  in  a Barn.  — Launch  upon 
3 


4 


CONTENTS  OF  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH, 


London.  — A City  Night-scene.  — Struggles  with  Penury.  — 
Miseries  of  a Tutor.  — A Doctor  in  the  Suburb.  — Poor 
Practice  and  Second-hand  Finery.  — A Tragedy  in  Embryo. 
— Project  of  the  Written  Mountains 

CHAPTER  VII. 

Life  of  a Pedagogue.  — Kindness  to  Schoolboys.  — Pertness  in 
Return.  — Expensive  Charities.  — The  Griffiths  and  the 
Monthly  Beview.  — Toils  of  a Literary  Hack.  — Rupture 
with  the  Griffiths 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Newbery,  of  Picture-book  Memory.  — How  to  keep  up  Appear- 
ances. — Miseries  of  Authorship.  — A Poor  Relation.  — 
Letter  to  Hodson 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Hackney  Authorship.  — Thoughts  of  Literary  Suicide.  — Return 
to  Peckham. — Oriental  Projects. — Literary  Enterprise  to 
raise  Funds.  — Letter  to  Edward  Wells  ; to  Robert  Bryan- 
ton.  — Death  of  Uncle  Contarine.  — Letter  to  Cousin  Jane  . 

CHAPTER  X. 

Oriental  Appointment ; and  Disappointment.  — Examination  at 
the  College  of  Surgeons.  — How  to  procure  a Suit  of  Clothes. 
— Fresh  Disappointment. — A Tale  of  Distress. — The  Suit 
of  Clothes  in  Pawn. — Punishment  for  doing  an  Act  of 
Charity.  — Gayeties  of  Green- Arbor  Court.  — Letter  to  his 
Brother.  — Life  of  Voltaire.  — Scroggins,  an  Attempt  at 
Mock-heroic  Poetry 

CHAPTER  XI. 

Publication  of  The  Inquiry.  — Attacked  by  Griffiths’  Beview.  — 
Kenrick,  the  Literary  Ishmaelite.  — Periodical  Literature.  — 
Goldsmith’s  Essays. — Garrick  as  a Manager.  — Smollett  and 
his  Schemes.  — Change  of  Lodgings.  — The  Robin  Hood  Club 

CHAPTER  XII. 

New  Lodgings.  — Visits  of  Ceremony.  — Hangers-on.  — Pilking- 
ton  and  the  White  Mouse.  — Introduction  to  Dr.  Johnson. 
— Davies  and  his  Bookshop.  — Pretty  Mrs.  Davies.  — Foote 
and  his  Projects.  — Criticism  of  the  Cudgel  .... 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

Oriental  Projects. — Literary  Jobs.  — The  Cherokee  Chiefs. — 
Merry  Islington  and  the  White  Conduit  House.  — Letters 


PAGE 

54 


59 


63 


68 


76 


87 


93 


CONTENTS  OF  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH. 


5 


on  the  History  of  England. — James  Boswell. — Dinner  of 
Davies. — Anecdotes  of  Johnson  and  Goldsmith  ...  98 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

Hogarth  a Visitor  at  Islington  ; his  Character.  — Street  Studies. 

— Sympathies  between  Authors  and  Painters. — Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  ; his  Character  ; his  Dinners.  — The  Literary  Club  ; 
its  Members.  — Johnson’s  Revels  with  Lanky  and  Beau.  — 
Goldsmith  at  the  Club 105 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Johnson  a Monitor  to  Goldsmith  ; finds  him  in  Distress  with  his 
Landlady  ; relieved  by  the,  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  — The  Ora- 
torio. — Poem  of  The  Traveller.  — The  Poet  and  his  Dog.  — 
Success  of  the  Poem.  — Astonishment  at  the  Club.  — Ob- 
servations on  the  Poem 113 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

New  Lodgings. — Johnson’s  Compliment. — A Titled  Patron. — 

The  Poet  at  Northumberland  House.  — His  Independence  of 
the  Great.  — The  Countess  of  Northumberland.  — Edwin 
and  Angelina.  — Gosfield  and  Lord  Clare.  — Publication  of 
Essays.  — Evils  of  a Rising  Reputation.  — Hangers-on.  — 
Job-writing.  — Goody  Two- Shoes.  — A Medical  Campaign. 
•—Mrs.  Sidebotham 118 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

Publication  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield;  Opinions  concerning  it; 
of  Dr.  Johnson  ; of  Rogers  the  Poet ; of  Goethe  ; its  Merits  ; 
Exquisite  Extract.  — Attack  by  Kenrick. — Reply. — Book- 
building. — Project  of  a Comedy 125 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Social  Position  of  Goldsmith  ; his  Colloquial  Contests  with  John- 
son. — Anecdotes  and  Illustrations 132 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

Social  Resorts. — The  Shilling  Whist-club. — A Practical  Joke. 

— The  Wednesday  Club. — The  Tun  of  Man.  — The  Pig- 
butcher.  — Tom  King.  — Hugh  Kelly.  — Glover  and  his 
Characteristics 137 

CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Great  Cham  of  Literature  and  the  King. — Scene  at  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds’s.  — Goldsmith  accused  of  Jealousy.  — 
Negotiations  with  Garrick.  — The  Author  and  the  Actor ; 
their  Correspondence  . . . . . . . .141 


6 


CONTENTS  OF  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH, 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

PAGE 

More  Hack-authorship.  — Tom  Davies  and  the  Roman  History. 

— Canonbury  Castle.  — Political  Authorship.  — Pecuniary 
Temptation.  — Death  of  Newbery  the  Elder  . . . 146 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

Theatrical  Manoeuvring.  — The  Comedy  of  False  Delicacy.  — 

First  Performance  of  The  Good-natui'ed  Man. — Conduct 
of  eJohnson.  — Conduct  of  the  Author.  — Intermeddling  of 
the  Press 149 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

Burning  the  Candle  at  Both  Ends.  — Fine  Apartments.  — Fine 
Furniture.  — Fine  Clothes.  — Fine  Acquaintances.  — Shoe- 
maker’s Holiday  and  Jolly-Pigeon  Associates.  — Peter  Bar- 
low,  Glover,  and  the  Hampstead  Hoax.  — Poor  Friends 
among  Great  Acquaintances 154 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Reduced  again  to  Book-building.  — Rural  Retreat  at  Shoe- 
maker’s Paradise.  — Death  of  Henry  Goldsmith  ; Tributes 
to  his  Memory  in  the  Deserted  Village 158 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

Dinner  at  Bickerstaff’s.  — Hiffernan  and  his  Impecuniosity.  — 
Kenrick’s  Epigram.  — Johnson’s  Consolation.  — Goldsmith’s 
Toilet.  — The  Bloom-colored  Coat.  — New  Acquaintances  ; 
the  Hornecks.  — A Touch  of  Poetry  and  Passion.  — The 
Jessamy  Bride 161 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 

Goldsmith  in  the  Temple. — Judge  Day  and  Grattan. — Labor 
and  Dissipation.  — Publication  of  the  Roman  History.  — 
Opinions  of  it.  — History  of  Animated  Nature,  — Temple 
Rookery. — ^ Anecdotes  of  a Spider 167 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Honors  at  the  Royal  Academy.  — Letter  to  his  Brother  Maurice. 

— Family  Fortunes.  — Jane  Contarine  and  the  Miniature. — 
Portraits  and  Engravings.  — School  Associations.  — Johnson 
and  Goldsmith  in  Westminster  Abbey  . . . . . 174 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Publication  of  the  Deserted  Village;  Notices  and  Illustrations 

of  it 178 


CONTENTS  OF  LIFE  OF  OOLDSUTTII.  1 


CHAPTEK  XXIX. 

PAGE 

The  Poet  among  the  Ladies  ; Description  of  his  Person  and  Man- 
ners. — Expedition  to  Paris  with  the  Horneck  Family.  — 

The  Traveller  of  Twenty  and  the  Traveller  of  Forty.  — 
Hickey,  the  Special  Attorney.  — An  Unlucky  Exploit  . . 184 

CHAPTEK  XXX. 

Death  of  Goldsmith’s  Mother.  — Biography  of  Parnell.  — Agree- 
ment with  Davies  for  the  History  of  Borne.  — Life  of  Boling’ 
broke,  — The  Haunch  of  Venison 192 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Dinner  at  the  Royal  Academy.  — The  Rowley  Controversy.  — 
Horace  Walpole’s  Conduct  to  Chatterton.  — Johnson  at  Red- 
cliffe  Church.  — Goldsmith’s  History  of  England.  — Davies’s 
Criticism.  — Letter  to  Bennet  Langton 196 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Marriage  of  Little  Comedy.  — Goldsmith  at  Barton.  — Practical 
Jokes  at  the  Expense  of  his  Toilet.  — Amusements  at  Barton. 

— Aquatic  Misadventure 200 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

Dinner  at  General  Oglethorpe’s.  — Anecdotes  of  the  General. — 

Dispute  about  Duelling.  — Ghost  Stories  ....  203 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Mr.  Joseph  Cradock.  — An  Author’s  Confidings. — An  Amanu- 
ensis. — Life  at  Edge  ware.  — Goldsmith  Conjuring.  — George 
Colman. — The  Fantoccini 207 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Broken  Health.  — Dissipation  and  Debts. — The  Irish  Widow. 

— Practical  Jokes.  — Scrub.  — A Misquoted  Pun.  — Mala- 
grida.  — Goldsmith  proved  to  be  a Fool.  — Distressed  Ballad- 
singers.  — The.  Poet  at  Ranelagh 215 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Invitation  to  Christmas.  — The  Spring-velvet  Coat.  — The  Hay- 
making Wig.  — The  Mischances  of  Loo.  — The  Fair  Culprit. 

— A Dance  with  the  Jessamy  Bride 223 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

Theatrical  Delays.  — Negotiations  with  Colman.  — Letter  to  Gar- 
rick. — Croaking  of  the  Manager.  — Naming  of  the  Play. — 


8 


CONTENTS  OF  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH, 


She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  — Foote’s  Primitive  Puppet-show, 
Piety  on  Fattens. — First  Performance  of  the  Comedy. — 
Agitation  of  the  Author.  — Success.  — Colman  squibbed  out 
of  Town 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

A Newspaper  Attack.  — The  Evans  Affray.  — Johnson’s  Comment 
CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Boswell  in  Holy-week.  — Dinner  at  Oglethorpe’s.  — Dinner  at 
Paoli’s. — The  Policy  of  Truth.  — Goldsmith  affects  Inde- 
pendence of  Royalty.  — Paoli’s  Compliment.  — Johnson’s 
Eulogium  on  the  Fiddle.  — Question  about  Suicide.  — Bos- 
well’s Subserviency  


CHAPTER  XL. 

Changes  in  the  Literary  Club.  — Johnson’s  Objection  to  Garrick. 
— Election  of  Boswell  . . 

CHAPTER  XLL 

Dinner  at  Dilly’s.  — Conversations  on  Natural  History.  — Inter- 
meddling of  Boswell.  — Dispute  about  Toleration. — John- 
son’s Rebuff  to  Goldsmith  ; his  Apology.  — Man-worship.  — 
Doctors  Major  and  Minor.  — A Farewell  Visit 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

Project  of  a Dictionary  of  Arts  and  Sciences.  — Disappointment. 
— Negligent  Authorship.  — Application  for  a Pension.  — 
Beattie’s  Essay  on  Truth.  — Public  Adulation. — A High- 
minded  Rebuke  


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Toil  without  Hope.  — The  Poet  in  the  Green-room  ; in  the  Flower- 
garden  ; at  Vauxhall ; Dissipation  without  Gayety.  — Crad- 
ock  in  Town  ; Friendly  Sympathy  ; a Parting  Scene  ; an 
Invitation  to  Pleasure  

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A Return  to  Drudgery  ; Forced  Gayety  ; Retreat  to  the  Country  ; 
the  Poem  of  Retaliation.  — Portrait  of  Garrick  ; of  Gold- 
smith ; of  Reynolds.  — Illness  of  the  Poet ; his  Death  ; Grief 
of  his  Friends.  — A Last  Word  respecting  the  Jessamy  Bride 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  Funeral.  — The  Monument. — The  Epitaph. — Concluding 
Reflections 


PAGE 

227 

236 

240 

248 

251 

256 

260 

265 

278 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


CHAPTER  I. 

There  are  few  writers  for  whom  the  reader  feels  such  personal 
kindness  as  for  Oliver  Goldsmith,  for  few  have  so  eminently  pos- 
sessed the  magic  gift  of  identifying  themselves  with  their  writings. 
We  read  his  character  in  every  page,  and  grow  into  familiar  in- 
timacy with  him  as  we  read.  The  artless  benevolence  that  beams 
throughout  his  works  ; the  whimsical,  yet  amiable  views  of  human 
life  and  human  nature ; the  unforced  humor,  blending  so  happily 
with  good  feeling  and  good  sense,  and  singularly  dashed  at  times 
with  a pleasing  melancholy ; even  the  very  nature  of  his  mellow, 
and  flowing,  and  softly-tinted  style,  — all  seem  to  bespeak  his 
moral  as  well  as  his  intellectual  qualities,  and  make  us  love  the 
man  at  the  same  time  that  we  admire  the  author.  While  the 
productions  of  writers  of  loftier  pretension  and  more  sounding 
names  are  suffered  to  moulder  on  our  shelves,  those  of  Goldsmith 
are  cherished  and  laid  in  oiir  bosoms.  We  do  not  quote  them 
with  ostentation,  but  they  mingle  with  our  minds,  sweeten  our 
tempers,  and  harmonize  our  thoughts ; they  put  us  in  good-humor 
with  ourselves  and  with  the  world,  and  in  so  doing  they  make  us 
happier  and  better  men. 

An  acquaintance  with  the  private  biography  of  Goldsmith  lets 
us  into  the  secret  of  his  gifted  pages.  We  there  discover  them  to 
be  little  more  than  transcripts  of  his  own  heart  and  picturings  of 
his  fortunes.  There  he  shows  himself  the  same  kind,  artless,  good- 
humored,  excursive,  sensible,  whimsical,  intelligent  being  that  he 
appears  in  his  writings.  Scarcely  an  adventure  or  character  is 
given  in  his  works  that  may  not  be  traced  to  his  own  parti-colored 

9 


10 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


story.  Many  of  his  most  ludicrous  scenes  and  ridiculous  incidents 
have  been  drawn  from  his  own  blunders  and  mischances,  and  he 
seems  really  to  have  been  buffeted  into  almost  every  maxim 
imparted  by  him  for  the  instruction  of  his  reader. 

Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  on  the  10th  of  November,  1728,  at 
the  hamlet  of  Pallas,  or  Pallasmore,  county  of  Longford,  in  Ireland. 
He  sprang  from  a respectable,  but  by  no  means  a thrifty  stock. 
Some  families  seem  to  inherit  kindliness  and  incompetency,  and 
to  hand  down  virtue  and  poverty  from  generation  to  generation. 
Such  was  the  case  with  the  Goldsmiths.  “ They  were  always,’’ 
according  to  their  own  accounts,  “a  strange  family;  they  rarely 
acted  like  other  people ; their  hearts  were  in  the  right  place,  but 
their  heads  seemed  to  be  doing  anything  but  what  they  ought.” 
‘‘  They  were  remarkable,”  says  another  statement,  ‘‘  for  their  worth, 
but  of  no  cleverness  in  the  ways  of  the  world.”  Oliver  Goldsmith 
will  be  found  faithfully  to  inherit  the  virtues  and  weaknesses  of 
his  race. 

His  father,  the  Rev.  Charles  Goldsmith,  with  hereditary  im- 
providence, married  when  very  young  and  very  poor,  and  starved 
along  for  several  years  on  a small  country  curacy  and  the  assist- 
ance of  his  wife’s  friends.  His  whole  income,  eked  out  by  the 
produce  of  some  fields  which  he  farmed,  and  of  some  occasional 
duties  performed  for  his  wife’s  uncle,  the  rector  of  an  adjoining 
parish,  did  not  exceed  forty  pounds. 

“And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year.” 

He  inhabited  an  old,  half  rustic  mansion,  that  stood  on  a rising 
ground  in  a rough,  lonely  part  of  the  country,  overlooking  a low 
tract  occasionally  flooded  by  the  river  Inny.  In  this  house  Gold- 
smith was  born,  and  it  was  a birthplace  worthy  of  a poet ; for,  by 
all  accounts,  it  was  haunted  ground.  A tradition  handed  down 
among  the  neighboring  peasantry  states  that,  in  after-years,  the 
house,  remaining  for  some  time  untenanted,  went  to  decay,  the 
roof  fell  in,  and  it  became  so  lonely  and  forlorn  as  to  be  a resort 
for  the  “ good  people  ” or  fairies,  who  in  Ireland  are  supposed  to 


ms  FATHER, 


11 


delight  in  old,  crazy,  deserted  mansions  for  their  midnight  revels. 
All  attempts  to  repair  it  were  in  vain  ; the  fairies  battled  stoutly 
to  maintain  possession.  A huge  misshapen  hobgoblin  used  to 
bestride  the  bouse  every  evening  with  an  immense  pair  of  jack- 
boots,  which,  in  his  efforts  at  hard  riding,  he  would  thrust  through 
the  roof,  kicking  to  pieces  all  the  work  of  the  preceding  day. 
The  house  was  therefore  left  to  its  fate,  and  went  to  ruin. 

Such  is  the  popular  tradition  about  Goldsmith’s  birthplace. 
About  two  years  after  his  birth  a change  came  over  the  circum- 
stances of  his  father.  By  the  death  of  his  wife’s  uncle  he  suc- 
ceeded to  the  rectory  of  Kilkenny  West ; and,  abandoning  the  old 
goblin  mansion,  he  removed  to  Lissoy,  in  the  county  of  Westmeath, 
where  he  occupied  a farm  of  seventy  acres,  situated  on  the  skirts 
of  that  pretty  little  village. 

This  was  the  scene  of  Goldsmith’s  boyhood,  the  little  world 
whence  he  drew  many  of  those  pictures,  rural  and  domestic,  whim- 
sical and  touching,  which  abound  throughout  his  works,  and  which 
appeal  so  eloquently  both  to  the  fancy  and  the  heart.  Lissoy  is 
confidently  cited  as  the  original  of  his  “Auburn”  in  the  Deserted 
Village  ; his  father’s  establishment,  a mixture  of  farm  and  parson- 
age, furnished  hints,  it  is  said,  for  the  rural  economy  of  the  “ Vicar 
of  Wakefield  ” ; and  his  father  himself,  with  his  learned  simplicity, 
his  guileless  wisdom,  his  amiable  piety,  and  utter  ignorance  of  the 
world,  has  been  exquisitely  portrayed  in  the  worthy  Dr.  Primrose. 
Let  us  pause  for  a moment,  and  draw  from  Goldsmith’s  writings 
one  or  two  of  those  pictures  which,  under  feigned  names,  represent 
his  father  and  his  family,  and  the  happy  fireside  of  his  childish 
days. 

“My  father,”  says  the  “Man  in  Black,”  who,  in  some  respects,  is 
a counterpart  of  Goldsmith  himself,  — “my  father,  the  younger  son 
of  a good  family,  was  possessed  of  a small  living  in  the  church.  His 
education  was  above  his  fortune,  and  his  generosity  greater  than  his 
education.  Poor  as  he  was,  he  had  his  flatterers  poorer  than  himself  : 
for  every  dinner  he  gave  them,  they  returned  him  an  equivalent  in 
praise  ; and  this  was  all  he  wanted.  The  same  ambition  that  actuates 
a monarch  at  the  head  of  his  army,  influenced  my  father  at  the  head 


12 


OLIVEU  GOLDSMITH, 


of  his  table  ; he  told  the  story  of  the  ivy-tree,  and  that  was  laughed 
at ; he  repeated  the  jest  of  the  two  scholars  and  one  pair  of  breeches, 
and  the  company  laughed  at  that ; but  the  story  of  Taffy  in  the  sedan- 
chair  was  sure  to  set  the  table  in  a roar.  Thus  his  pleasure  increased 
in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  he  gave  ; he  loved  all  the  world,  and  he 
fancied  all  the  world  loved  him. 

“As  his  fortune  was  but  small,  he  lived  up  to  the  very  extent  of 
it : he  had  no  intention  of  leaving  his  children  money,  for  that  was 
dross  ; he  resolved  they  should  have  learning,  for  learning,  he  used  to 
observe,  was  better  than  silver  or  gold.  For  this  purpose  he  under- 
took to  instruct  us  himself,  and  took  as  much  care  to  form  our  morals 
as  to  improve  our  understanding.  We  were  told  that  universal  be- 
nevolence was  what  first  cemented  society  : we  were  taught  to  con- 
sider all  the  wants  of  mankind  as  our  own  ; to  regard  the  human 
face  divme  with  affection  and  esteem  ; he  wound  us  up  to  be  mere 
machines  of  pity,  and  rendered  us  incapable  of  withstanding  the 
slightest  impulse  made  either  by  real  or  fictitious  distress.  In  a 
word,  we  were  perfectly  instructed  in  the  art  of  giving  away  thou- 
sands before  we  were  taught  the  necessary  qualifications  of  getting  a 
farthing.” 

In  the  Deserted  Village  we  have  another  picture  of  his  father 
and  his  father’s  fireside  : — 

“ His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 

He  chid  their  wanderings,  but  relieved  their  pain  ; 

The  long-remembered  beggar  was  his  guest, 

Whose  beard,  descending,  swept  his  aged  breast ; 

The  ruin’d  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 

Claim’d  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow’d  , 

The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bade  to  stay, 

Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talked  the  night  away  ; 

Wept  o’er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done. 

Shoulder’d  his  crutch,  and  show’d  how  fields  were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learned  to  glow, 

And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe  ; 

Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan. 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began.” 

The  family  of  the  worthy  pastor  consisted  of  five  sons  and  three 
daughters.  Henry,  the  eldest,  was  the  good  man’s  pride  and  hope, 
and  he  tasked  his  slender  means  to  the  utmost  in  educating  him 


HIS  EABLY  EDUCATION, 


13 


for  , a learned  and  distinguished  career.  Oliver  was  the  second 
son,  and  seven  years  younger  than  Henry,  who  was  the  guide  and 
protector  of  his  childhood,  and  to  whom  he  was  most  tenderly 
attached  throughout  life. 

Oliver’s  education  began  when  he  was  about  three  years  old ; 
that  is  to  say,  he  was  gathered  under  the  wings  of  one  of  those 
good  old  motherly  dames,  found  in  every  village,  who  cluck  together 
the  whole  callow  brood  of  the  neighborhood,  to  teach  them  their 
letters  and  keep  them  out  of  harm’s  way.  Mistress  Elizabeth 
Delap,  for  that  was  her  name,  flourished  in  this  capacity  for  uj)- 
ward  of  fifty  years,  and  it  was  the  pride  and  boast  of  her  declining 
days,  when  nearly  ninety  years  of  age,  that  she  was  the  first  that 
had  put  a book  (doubtless  a hornbook)  into  Goldsmith’s  hands. 
Apparently  he  did  not  much  profit  by  it,  for  she  confessed  he  was 
one  of  the  dullest  boys  she  had  ever  dealt  with,  insomuch  that  she 
had  sometimes  doubted  whether  it  was  possible  to  make  anything 
of  him  : a common  case  with  imaginative  children,  who  are  apt  to 
be  beguiled  from  the  dry  abstractions  of  elementary  study  by  the 
picturings  of  the  fancy. 

At  six  years  of  age  he  passed  into  the  hands  of  the  village 
schoolmaster,  one  Thomas  (or,  as  he  was  commonly  and  irrev- 
erently named,  Paddy)  Byrne,  a capital  tutor  for  a poet.  He 
had  been  educated  for  a pedagogue,  but  had  enlisted  in  the  army, 
served  abroad  during  the  wars  of  Queen  Anne’s  time,  and  risen 
to  the  rank  of  quartermaster  of  a regiment  in  Spain.  At  the  re- 
turn of  peace,  having  no  longer  exercise  for  the  sword,  he  resumed 
the  ferule,  and  drilled  the  urchin  populace  of  Lissoy.  Goldsmith 
is  supposed  to  have  had  him  and  his  school  in  view  in  the  follow- 
ing sketch  in  his  Deserted  Village : — 

“ Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 

With  blossom’d  furze  unprofitably  gay. 

There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill’d  to  rule. 

The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 

A man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 

I knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  : 


14 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn’ d to  trace 
The  day’s  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 

Full  well  they  laugh’d  with  counterfeited  glee 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a joke  had  he  ; 

Full  well  the  busy  whisper  ci^^h’ng  round, 

Convey’d  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown’d  : 

Yet  he  was  kind,  or,  if  severe  in  aught. 

The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 

The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew, 

’T  was  certain  he  could  write,  and  cipher  too  ; 

Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 

And  e’en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge  ; 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own’d  his  skill, 

For,  e’en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 

While  words  of  learned  length  and  thund’ring  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics,  ranged  around,  — 

And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 

That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew.” 

There  are  certain  whimsical  traits  in  the  character  of  Byrne, 
not  given  in  the  foregoing  sketch.  He  was  fond  of  talking  of  his 
vagabond  wanderings  in  foreign  lands,  and  had  brought  with  him 
from  the  wars  a world  of  campaigning  stories,  of  which  he  was 
generally  the  hero,  and  which  he  would  deal  forth  to  his  wonder- 
ing scholars  when  he  ought  to  have  been  teaching  them  their 
lessons.  These  travellers’  tales  had  a powerful  effect  upon  the 
vivid  imagination  of  Goldsmith,  and  awakened  an  unconquerable 
passion  for  wandering  and  seeking  adventure. 

Byrne  was,  moreover,  of  a romantic  vein,  and  exceedingly  su- 
perstitious. He  was  deeply  versed  in  the  fairy  superstitions 
which  abound  in  Ireland,  all  which  he  professed  implicitly  to  be- 
lieve. Under  his  tuition  Goldsmith  soon  became  almost  as  great 
a proficient  in  fairy  lore.  From  this  branch  of  good-for-nothing 
knowledge  his  studies,  by  an  easy  transition,  extended  to  the 
histories  of  robbers,  pirates,  smugglers,  and  the  whole  race  of 
Irish  rogues  and  rapparees.  Everything,  in  short,  that  savored 
of  romance,  fable,  and  adventure,  was  congenial  to  his  poetic 
mind,  and  took  instant  root  there ; but  the  slow  plants  of  useful 


BYRNE,  THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOLMASTER, 


15 


knowledge  were  apt  to  be  overrun,  if  not  choked,  by  the  weeds  of 
liis  quick  imagination. 

Another  trait  of  his  motley  preceptor,  Byrne,  was  a disposition 
to  dabble  in  poetry,  and  this  likewise  was  caught  by  his  pupil. 
Before  he  was  eight  years  old.  Goldsmith  had  contracted  a habit 
of  scribbling  verses  on  small  scraps  of  paper,  which,  in  a little 
while,  he  would  throw  into  the  fire.  A few  of  these  sibylline 
leaves,  however,  were  rescued  from  the  flames  and  conveyed  to  his 
mother.  The  good  woman  read  them  wltli  a mother’s  delight, 
and  saw  at  once  that  her  son  was  a genius  and  a poet.  From 
that  time  she  beset  her  husband  with  solicitations  to  give  the  boy 
an  education  suitable  to  his  talents.  The  worthy  man  was 
already  straitened  by  the  costs  of  instruction  of  his  eldest  son 
Henry,  and  had  intended  to  bring  his  second  son  up  to  a 
trade ; but  the  mother  would  listen  to  no  such  thing ; as  usual, 
her  influence  prevailed,  and  Oliver,  instead  of  being  instructed  in 
some  humble,  but  cheerful  and  gainful  handicraft,  was  devoted  to 
poverty  and  the  Muse. 

A severe  attack  of  the  small-pox  caused  him  to  be  taken  from 
under  the  care  of  his  story-telling  preceptor,  Byrne.  His  malady 
had  nearly  proved  fatal,  and  his  face  remained  pitted  through  life. 
On  his  recovery  he  was  placed  under  the  charge  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Griffin,  schoolmaster  of  Elphin,  in  Roscommon,  and  became  an 
inmate  in  the  house  of  his  uncle,  John  Goldsmith,  Esq.,  of  Bally- 
oughter,  in  that  vicinity.  He  now  entered  upon  studies  of  a 
higher  order,  but  without  making  any  uncommon  progress.  Still 
a careless,  easy  facility  of  disposition,  an  amusing  eccentricity 
of  manners,  and  a vein  of  quiet  and  peculiar  humor,  rendered 
him  a general  favorite,  and  a trifling  incident  soon  induced  his 
uncle’s  family  to  concur  in  his  mother’s  opinion  of  his  genius. 

A number  of  young  folks  had  assembled  at  his  uncle’s  to  dance. 
One  of  the  company,  named  Cummings,  played  on  the  violin.  In 
the  course  of  the  evening  Oliver  undertook  a hornpipe.  His  short 
and  clumsy  figure,  and  his  face  pitted  and  discolored  with  the 
small-pox,  rendered  him  a ludicrous  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the 


16 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


musician,  who  made  merry  at  his  expense,  dubbing  him  his  little 
^sop.  Goldsmith  was  nettled  by  the  jest,  and,  stopping  short  in 
the  hornpipe,  exclaimed,  — 

“ Our  herald  hath  proclaimed  this  saying, 

See  ^sop  dancing,  and  his  monkey  playing.” 

The  repartee  was  thought  wonderful  for  a boy  of  nine  years  old, 
and  Oliver  became  forthwith  the  wit  and  the  bright  genius  of  the 
family.  It  was  thought  a pity  he  should  not  receive  the  same 
advantages  with  his  eider  brother  Henry,  who  had  been  sent  to 
the  University ; and,  as  his  father’s  circumstances  would  not  af- 
ford it,  several  of  his  relatives,  spurred  on  by  the  representations 
of  his  mother,  agreed  to  contribute  towards  the  expense.  The 
greater  part,  however,  was  borne  by  his  uncle,  the  Kev.  Thomas 
Contarine.  This  worthy  man  had  been  the  college  companion  of 
Bishop  Berkeley,  and  was  possessed  of  moderate  means,  holding 
the  living  of  Carrick-on-Shannon.  He  had  married  the  sister  of 
Goldsmith’s  father,  but  was  now  a widower,  with  an  only  child,  a 
daughter,  named  Jane.  Contarine  was  a kind-hearted  man,  with 
a generosity  beyond  his  means.  He  took  Goldsmith  into  favor 
from  his  infancy ; his  house  was  open  to  him  during  the  holidays ; 
his  daughter  Jane,  two  years  older  than  the  poet,  was  his  early 
playmate ; and  uncle  Contarine  continued  to  the  last  one  of  his 
most  active,  unwavering,  and  generous  friends. 

Fitted  out  in  a great  measure  by  this  considerate  relative, 
Oliver  was  now  transferred  to  schools  of  a higher  order,  to  pre- 
pare him  for  the  University;  first  to  one  at  Athlone,  kept  by  the 
Kev.  Mr.  Campbell,  and,  at  the  end  of  two  years,  to  one  at 
Edgeworthstown,  under  the  superintendence  of  the  Rev.  Patrick 
Hughes. 

Even  at  these  schools  his  proficiency  does  not  appear  to  have 
been  brilliant.  He  was  indolent  and  careless,  however,  rather 
than  dull,  and,  on  the  whole,  appears  to  have  been  well  thought 
of  by  his  teachers.  In  his  studies  he  inclined  towards  the  Latin 
poets  and  historians ; relished  Ovid  and  Horace,  and  delighted  in 


SCHOOL  STUDIES  AND  SPOBTS. 


17 


Livy.  He  exercised  himself  with  pleasure  in  reading  and  trans- 
lating Tacitus,  and  was  brought  to  pay  attention  to  style  in  his 
compositions  by  a reproof  from  his  brother  Henry,  to  whom  he 
had  written  brief  and  confused  letters,  and  who  told  him  in  reply, 
that,  if  he  had  but  little  to  say,  to  endeavor  to  say  that  little 
well. 

The  career  of  his  brother  Henry  at  the  University  was  enough 
to  stimulate  him  to  exertion.  He  seemed  to  be  realizing  all  his 
father’s  hopes,  and  was  winning  collegiate  honors  that  the  good 
man  considered  indicative  of  his  future  success  in  life. 

In  the  meanwhile,  Oliver,  if  not  distinguished  among  his 
teachers,  was  popular  among  his  schoolmates.  He  had  a thought- 
less generosity  extremely  captivating  to  young  hearts  : his  temper 
was  quick  and  sensitive,  and  easily  offended ; but  his  anger  was 
momentary,  and  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  harbor  resentment. 
He  was  the  leader  of  all  boyish  sports,  and  athletic  amusements, 
especially  ball-playing,  and  he  was  foremost  in  all  mischievous 
pranks.  Many  years  afterward,  an  old  man.  Jack  Fitzsimmons, 
one  of  the  directors  of  the  sports,  and  keeper  of  the  ball-court  at 
Ballymahon,  used  to  boast  of  having  been  schoolmate  of  ‘‘  ISToll 
Goldsmith,”  as  he  called  him,  and  would  dwell  with  vainglory  on 
one  of  their  exploits,  in  robbing  the  orchard  of  Tirlicken,  an  old 
family  residence  of  Lord  Annaly.  The  exploit,  however,  had 
nearly  involved  disastrous  consequences ; for  the  crew  of  juvenile 
depredators  were  captured,  like  Shakspeare  and  his  deer-stealing  col- 
leagues ; and  nothing  but  the  respectability  of  Goldsmith’s  connec- 
tions saved  him  from  the  punishment  that  would  have  awaited 
more  plebeian  delinquents. 

An  amusing  incident  is  related  as  occurring  in  Goldsmith’s  last 
journey  homeward  from  Edgeworthstown.  His  father’s  house 
was  about  twenty  miles  distant;  the  road  lay  through  a rough 
country,  impassable  for  carriages.  Goldsmith  procured  a horse 
for  the  journey,  and  a friend  furnished  him  with  a guinea  for 
travelling  expenses.  He  was  but  a stripling  of  sixteen,  and  being 
thus  suddenly  mounted  on  horseback,  with  money  in  his‘  pocket, 


18 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


it’ is  no  wonder  that  his  head  was  turned.  He  determined  to  play 
the  man,  and  to  spend  his  money  in  independent  traveller’s  style. 
Accordingly,  instead  of  pushing  directly  for  home,  he  halted  for 
the  night  at  the  little  town  of  Ardagh,  and,  accosting  the  first 
person  he  met,  inquired,  with  somewhat  of  a consequential  air,  for 
the  best  house  in  the  place.  Unluckily,  the  person  he  had  ac- 
costed was  one  Kelly,  a notorious  wag,  who  was  quartered  in  the 
family  of  one  Mr.  Featherstone,  a gentleman  of  fortune.  Amused 
with  the  self-consequence  of  the  stripling,  and  willing  to  play  off  a 
practical  joke  at  his  expense,  he  directed  him  to  what  was  liter- 
ally “the  best  house  in  the  place,”  namely,  the  family  mansion  of 
Mr.  Featherstone.  Goldsmith  accordingly  rode  up  to  what  he 
supposed  to  be  an  inn,  ordered  his  horse  to  be  taken  to  the  stable, 
walked  into  the  parlor,  seated  himself  by  the  fire,  and  demanded 
what  he  could  have  for  supper.  On  ordinary  occasions  he  was 
diffident  and  even  awkward  in  his  manners,  but  here  he  was  “at 
ease  in  his  inn,”  and  felt  called  upon  to  show  his  manhood  and 
enact  the  experienced  traveller.  His  person  was  by  no  means  cal- 
culated to  play  off  his  pretensions,  for  he  was  short  and  thick, 
with  a pock-marked  face,  and  an  air  and  carriage  by  no  means  of 
a distinguished  cast.  The  owner  of  the  house,  however,  soon  dis- 
covered his  whimsical  mistake,  and,  being  a man  of  humor,  deter- 
mined to  indulge  it,  especially  as  he  accidentally  learned  that  this 
intruding  guest  was  the  son  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

Accordingly,  Goldsmith  was  “fooled  to  the  top  of  his  bent,”  and 
permitted  to  have  full  sway  throughout  the  evening.  Never  was 
schoolboy  more  elated.  When  supper  was  served,  he  most  con- 
descendingly insisted  that  the  landlord,  his  wife  and  daughter 
should  partake,  and  ordered  a bottle  of  wine  to  crown  the  repast 
and  benefit  the  house.  His  last  flourish  was  on  going  to  bed, 
when  he  gave  especial  orders  to  have  a hot  cake  at  breakfast. 
His  confusion  and  dismay,  on  discovering  the  next  morning  that 
he  had  been  swaggering  in  this  free  and  easy  way  in  the  house  of 
a private  gentleman,  may  be  readily  conceived.  True  to  his  habit 
of  turning  the  events  of  his  life  to  literary  account,  we  find  this 


IMPROVIDENT  MARRIAGES, 


19 


chapter  of  ludicrous  blunders  and  cross-purposes  dramatized  many 
years  afterward  in  his  admirable  comedy  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer^ 
or  the  Mistakes  of  a Night. 

CHAPTER  II. 

While  Oliver  was  making  his  way  somewhat  negligently  through 
the  schools,  his  elder  brother  Henry  was  rejoicing  his  father's 
heart  by  his  career  at  the  University.  He  soon  distinguished 
himself  at  the  examinations,  and  obtained  a scholarship  in  1743. 
This  is  a collegiate  distinction  which  serves  as  a stepping-stone  in 
any  of  the  learned  professions,  and  which  leads  to  advancement  in 
the  University  should  the  individual  choose  to  remain  there.  His 
father  now  trusted  that  he  would  push  forward  for  that  comfort- 
able provision,  a fellowship,  and  thence  to  higher  dignities  and 
emoluments.  Henry,  however,  had  the  improvidence,  or  the  “ un- 
worldliness " of  his  race  : returning  to  the  country  during  the  suc- 
ceeding vacation,  he  married  for  love,  relinquished,  of  course,  all 
his  collegiate  prospects  and  advantages,  set  up  a school  in  his 
father's  neighborhood,  and  buried  his  talents  and  acquirements  for 
the  remainder  of  his  life  in  a curacy  of  forty  pounds  a year. 

Another  matrimonial  event  occurred  not  long  afterward  in  the 
Goldsmith  family,  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  its  worthy  head. 
This  was  the  clandestine  marriage  of  his  daughter  Catherine  with 
a young  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Hodson,  who  had  been  confided 
to  the  care  of  her  brother  Henry  to  complete  his  studies.  As  the 
youth  was  of  wealthy  parentage,  it  was  thought  a lucky  match 
for  the  Goldsmith  family ; but  the  tidings  of  the  event  stung  the 
bride’s  father  to  the  soul.  Proud  of  his  integrity,  and  jealous  of 
that  good  name  which  was  his  chief  possession,  he  saw  himself 
and  his  family  subjected  to  the  degrading  suspicion  of  having 
abused  a trust  reposed  in  them  to  promote  a mercenary  match. 
In  the  first  transports  of  his  feelings,  he  is  said  to  have  uttered  a 
wish  that  his  daughter  might  never  have  a child  to  bring  like 


20 


OLIVER  GOLBSMiriL 


shame  and  sorrow  on  her  head.  The  hasty  wish,  so  contrary  to 
the  usual  benignity  of  tlie  man,  was  recalled  and  repented  of  al- 
most as  soon  as  uttered ; but  it  was  considered  baleful  in  its  effects 
by  the  superstitious  neighborhood ; for,  though  his  daughter  bore 
three  children,  they  all  died  before  her. 

A more  effectual  measure  was  taken  by  Mr.  Goldsmith  to  ward 
off  the  apprehended  imputation,  but  one  which  imposed  a heavy 
burden  on  liis  flimily.  This  was  to  furnish  a marriage  portion  of 
four  hundred  pounds,  that  his  daughter  might  not  be  said  to  have 
entered  her  husband’s  family  empty-handed.  To  raise  the  sum  in 
cash  was  impossible ; but  he  assigned  to  Mr.  Hodson  his  little 
farm  and  the  income  of  his  tithes  until  the  marriage  portion  should 
be  paid.  In  the  meantime,  as  his  living  did  not  amount  to  .£200 
per  annum,  he  had  to  practise  the  strictest  economy  to  pay  off 
gradually  this  heavy  tax  incurred  by  his  nice  sense  of  honor. 

The  first  of  his  family  to  feel  the  effects  of  this  economy  was 
Oliver.  The  time  had  now  arrived  for  him  to  be  sent  to  the  Uni- 
versity; and,  accordingly,  on  the  11th  June,  1745,  when  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin ; but  his 
father  was  no  longer  able  to  place  him  there  as  a pensioner,  as  he 
had  done  his  eldest  son  Henry ; he  was  obliged,  therefore,  to  enter 
him  as  a sizer,  or  ‘‘  poor  scholar.”  He  was  lodged  in  one  of  the 
top  rooms  adjoining  the  library  of  the  building,  numbered  35, 
where  it  is  said  his  name  may  still  be  seen,  scratched  by  himself 
upon  a window-frame. 

A student  of  this  class  is  taught  and  boarded  gratuitously,  and 
has  to  pay  but  a small  sum  for  his  room.  It  is  expected,  in  return 
for  these  advantages,  that  he  will  be  a diligent  student,  and  render 
himself  useful  in  a variety  of  ways.  In  Trinity  College,  at  the 
time  of  Goldsmith’s  admission,  several  derogatory,  and,  indeed, 
menial  offices  were  exacted  from  the  sizer,  as  if  the  college  sought 
to  indemnify  itself  for  conferring  benefits  by  inflicting  indignities. 
He  was  obliged  to  sweep  part  of  the  courts  in  the  morning ; to 
carry  up  the  dishes  from  the  kitchen  to  the  fellows’  table,  and  to 
wait  in  the  hall  until  that  body  had  dined.  His  very  dress 


SITUAriON  OF  A SIZFH. 


21 


marked  the  inferiority  of  the  ‘‘  poor  student  ’’  to  his  happier  class- 
mates. It  was  a black  gown  of  coarse  stuff  without  sleeves,  and 
a plain  black  cloth  cap  without  a tassel.  We  can  conceive  nothing 
more  odious  and  ill-judged  than  these  distinctions,  which  attached 
the  idea  of  degradation  to  poverty,  and  placed  the  indigent  youth 
of  merit  below  the  worthless  minion  of  fortune.  They  were  calcu- 
lated to  wound  and  irritate  the  noble  mind,  and  to  render  the  base 
mind  baser. 

Indeed,  the  galling  effect  of  these  servile  tasks  upon  youths  of 
proud  spirits  and  quick  sensibilities  became  at  length  too  notorious 
to  be  disregarded.  About  fifty  years  since,  on  a Trinity  Sunday,  a 
number  of  persons  were  assembled  to  witness  the  college  ceremo- 
nies ; and  as  a sizer  was  carrying  up  a dish  of  meat  to  the  fellows’ 
table,  a burly  citizen  in  the  crowd  made  some  sneering  observation 
on  the  servility  of  his  office.  Stung  to  the  quick,  the  high-spirited 
youth  instantly  flung  the  dish  and  its  contents  at  the  head  of  the 
sneerer.  The  sizer  Avas  sharply  reprimanded  for  this  outbreak  of 
wounded  pride,  but  the  degrading  task  w^as  from  that  day  forward 
very  properly  consigned  to  menial  hands. 

It  was  with  the  utmost  repugnance  that  Goldsmith  entered  col- 
lege in  this  capacity.  His  shy  and  sensitive  nature  was  affected  by 
the  inferior  station  he  was  doomed  to  hold  among  his  gay  and 
opulent  fellow-students,  and  he  became,  at  times,  moody  and  de- 
spondent. A recollection  of  these  early  mortifications  induced  him, 
in  after-years,  most  strongly  to  dissuade  his  brother  Henry,  the 
clergyman,  from  sending  a son  to  college  on  a like  footing.  “ If 
, he  has  ambition,  strong  passions,  and  an  exquisite  sensibility  of 

I contempt,  do  not  send  him  there,  unless  you  have  no  other  trade 

I for  him  except  your  own.” 

To  add  to  his  annoyances,  the  fellow  of  the  college  who  had  the 
peculiar  control  of  his  studies,  the  Rev.  Theaker  Wilder,  w^as  a man 
of  violent  and  capricious  temper,  and  of  diametrically  opposite 
tastes.  The  tutor  was  devoted  to  the  exact  sciences ; Goldsmith 
was  for  the  classics.  Wilder  endeavored  to  force  his  favorite 
studies  upon  the  student  by  harsh  means,  suggested  by  his  own 


22 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


coarse  and  savage  nature.  He  abused  him  in  presence  of  the  class 
as  ignorant  and  stupid ; ridiculed  him  as  awkward  and  ugly,  and 
at  times  in  the  transports  of  his  temper  indulged  in  personal  vio- 
lence. The  effect  was  to  aggravate  a passive  distaste  into  a posi- 
tive aversion.  Goldsmith  was  loud  in  expressing  his  contempt 
for  mathematics  and  his  dislike  of  ethics  and  logic ; and  the 
prejudices  thus  imbibed  continued  through  life.  Mathematics  he 
always  pronounced  a science  to  which  the  meanest  intellects  were 
competent. 

A truer  cause  of  this  distaste  for  the  severer  studies  may  prob- 
ably be  found  in  his  natural  indolence  and  his  love  of  convivial 
pleasures.  “ I was  a lover  of  mirth,  good -humor,  and  even  some- 
times of  fun,’’  said  he,  “from  my  childhood.”  He  sang  a good 
song,  was  a boon  companion,  and  could  not  resist  any  temptation 
to  social  enjoyment.  He  endeavored  to  persuade  himself  that 
learning  and  dulness  went  hand  in  hand,  and  that  genius  was  not 
to  be  put  in  harness.  Even  in  riper  years,  when  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  deficiencies  ought  to  have  convinced  him  of  the  impor- 
tance of  early  study,  he  speaks  slightingly  of  college  honors. 

“A  lad,”  says  he,  “whose  passions  are  not  strong  enough  in 
youth  to  mislead  him  from  that  path  of  science  which  his  tutors, 
and  not  his  inclination,  have  chalked  out,  by  four  or  five  years’ 
perseverance  will  probably  obtain  every  advantage  and  honor  his 
college  can  bestow.  I would  compare  the  man  whose  youth  has 
been  thus  passed  in  the  tranquillity  of  dispassionate  prudence,  to 
liquors  that  never  ferment,  and,  consequently,  continue  always 
muddy.” 

The  death  of  his  worthy  father,  which  took  place  early  in  1747, 
rendered  Goldsmith’s  situation  at  college  extremely  irksome.  His 
mother  was  left  with  little  more  than  the  means  of  providing  for 
the  wants  of  her  household,  and  was  unable  to  furnish  him  any 
remittances.  He  would  have  been  compelled,  therefore,  to  leave 
college,  had  it  not  been  for  the  occasional  contributions  of  friends, 
the  foremost  among  whom  was  his  generous  and  warm-hearted 
uncle  Contarine.  Still  these  supplies  were  so  scanty  and  precari- 


COLLEGE  BIOT. 


23 


ous,  that  in  the  intervals  between  them  he  was  put  to  great 
straits.  He  had  two  college  associates  from  whom  he  would  occa- 
sionally borrow  small  sums ; one  was  an  early  schoolmate,  by  the 
name  of  Beatty ; the  other  a cousin,  and  the  chosen  companion  of 
his  frolics,  Robert  (or  rather  Bob)  Bryant  on,  of  Ballymulvey 
House,  near  Ballymahon.  When  these  casual  supplies  failed  him, 
he  was  more  than  once  obliged  to  raise  funds  for  his  immediate 
wants  by  pawning  his  books.  At  times  he  sank  into  despondency, 
but  he  had  what  he  termed  ‘‘a  knack  at  hoping,”  which  soon 
buoyed  him  up  again.  He  began  now  to  resort  to  his  poetical  vein 
as  a source  of  profit,  scribbling  street-ballads,  which  he  privately 
sold  for  five  shillings  each  at  a shop  which  dealt  in  such  small 
wares  of  literature.  He  felt  an  author’s  afiection  for  these  un- 
owned bantlings,  and  we  are  told  would  stroll  privately  through 
the  streets  at  night  to  hear  them  sung,  listening  to  the  comments 
and  criticisms  of  by-standers,  and  observing  the  degree  of  applause 
which  each  received. 

Edmund  Burke  was  a fellow-student  with  Goldsmith  at  the  col- 
lege. Neither  the  statesman  nor  the  poet  gave  promise  of  their 
future  celebrity,  though  Burke  certainly  surpassed  his  contempo- 
rary in  industry  and  application,  and  evinced  more  disposition  for 
self-improvement,  associating  himself  with  a number  of  his  fellow- 
students  in  a debating  club,  in  which  they  discussed  literary  topics, ' 
and  exercised  themselves  in  composition. 

Goldsmith  may  likewise  have  belonged  to  this  association,  but 
his  propensity  was  rather  to  mingle  with  the  gay  and  thoughtless. 
On  one  occasion  we  find  him  implicated  in  an  affair  that  came 
nigh  producing  his  expulsion.  A report  was  brought  to  college 
that  a scholar  was  in  the  hands  of  the  bailiffs.  This  was  an  insult 
in  which  every  gownsman  felt  himself  involved.  A number  of  the 
scholars  flew  to  arms,  and  sallied  forth  to  battle,  headed  by  a hair- 
brained fellow  nicknamed  Gallows  Walsh,  noted  for  his  aptness  at 
mischief  and  fondness  for  riot.  The  stronghold  of  the  bailiff  was 
carried  by  storm,,  the  scholar  set  at  liberty,  and  the  delinquent 
catch-pole  borne  off  captive  to  the  college,  where,  having  no  pump 


24 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


to  put  him  under,  they  satisfied  the  demands  of  collegiate  law  by 
clucking  him  in  an  old  cistern. 

Flushed  with  this  signal  victory,  Gallows  Walsh  now  harangued 
his  followers,  and  proposed  to  break  open  Newgate,  or  the  Black 
Dog,  as  the  prison  was  called,  and  eftect  a general  jail-delivery. 
He  was  answered  by  shouts  of  concurrence,  and  away  went  the 
throng  of  madcap  youngsters,  fully  bent  upon  putting  an  end  to 
the  tyranny  of  law.  They  were  joined  by  the  mob  of  the  city, 
and  made  an  attack  upon  the  prison  with  true  Irish  precipitation 
and  thoughtlessness,  never  having  provided  themselves  with  can- 
non to  batter  its  stone  walls.  A few  shots  from  the  prison  brought 
them  to  their  senses,  and  they  beat  a hasty  retreat,  two  of  the 
townsmen  being  killed,  and  several  wounded. 

A severe  scrutiny  of  this  affair  took  place  at  the  University. 
Four  students,  who  had  been  ringleaders,  were  expelled  ; four 
others,  who  had  been  prominent  in  the  affray,  were  publicly  ad- 
nonished ; among  the  latter  was  the  unlucky  Goldsmith. 

To  make  up  for  this  disgrace,  he  gained,  within  a month  after- 
ward, one  of  the  minor  prizes  of  the  college.  It  is  true  it  was  one 
of  the  very  smallest,  amounting  in  pecuniary  value  to  but  thirty 
shillings,  but  it  was  the  first  distinction  he  had  gained  in  his 
whole  collegiate  career.  This  turn  of  success  and  sudden  influx  of 
•wealth  proved  too  much  for  the  head  of  our  poor  student.  He 
forthwith  gave  a supper  and  dance  at  his  chamber  to  a number  of 
young  persons  of  both  sexes  from  the  city,  in  direct  violation  of 
college  rules.  The  unwonted  sound  of  the  fiddle  reached  the  ears 
of  the  implacable  Wilder.  He  rushed  to  the  scene  of  unhallowed 
festivity,  inflicted  corporal  punishment  on  the  father  of  the 
feast,’’  and  turned  his  astonished  guests  neck  and  heels  out-of- 
doors. 

This  filled  the  measure  of  poor  Goldsmith’s  humiliations  ; he  felt 
degraded  both  within  college  and  without.  He  dreaded  the  ridi- 
cule of  his  fellow-students  for  the  ludicrous  termination  of  his 
orgie,  and  he  was  ashamed  to  meet  his  city  acquaintances  after  the 
degrading  chastisement  received  in  their  presence,  and  after  their 


SETTING  OUT  ON  A JOURNEY. 


25 


own  ignominious  expulsion.  Above  all,  he  felt  it  impossible  tc 
submit  any  longer  to  the  insulting  tyranny  of  Wilder  : he  deter- 
mined, therefore,  to  leave,  not  merely  the  college,  but  also  his 
native  land,  and  to  bury  what  he  conceived  to  be  his  irretrievable 
disgrace  in  some  distant  country.  He  accordingly  sold  his  books 
and  clothes,  and  sallied  forth  from  tlie  college  walls  the  very  next 
day,  intending  to  embark  at  Cork  for  — he  scarce  knew  where  — 
America,  or  any  other  part  beyond  sea.  With  his  usual  heed- 
less imprudeiK^e,  however,  he  loitered  about  Dublin  until  his 
finances  were  reduced  to  a shilling ; with  this  amount  of  specie 
he  set  out  on  his  journey. 

For  three  whole  days  he  subsisted  on  his  shilling ; when  that 
was  spent,  he  parted  with  some  of  the  clothes  from  his  back, 
until,  reduced  almost  to  nakedness,  he  was  four-and-twenty  hours 
without  food,  insomuch  that  he  declared  a handful  of  gray  peas, 
given  to  him  by  a girl  at  a wake,  was  one  of  the  most  delicious 
repasts  he  had  ever  tasted.  Hunger,  fatigue,  and  destitution 
brought  down  his  spirit  and  calmed  his  anger.  Fain  would  he 
have  retraced  his  steps,  could  he  have  done  so  with  any  salvo  for 
the  fingerings  of  his  pride.  In  his  extremity  be  conveyed  to  his 
brother  Henry  information  of  his  distress,  and  of  the  rash  proj- 
ect on  which  he  had  set  out.  His  afiectionate  brother  hastened 
to  his  relief ; furnished  him  with  money  and  clothes  ; soothed 
his  feelings  with  gentle  counsel ; prevailed  upon  him  to  return 
to  college,  and  effected  an  indifferent  reconciliation  between  him 
and  Wilder. 

After  this  irregular  sally  upon  fife  • he  remained  nearly  two 
years  longer  at  the  University,  giving  proofs  of  talent  in  occa- 
sional translations  from  the  classics,  for  one  of  which  he  received 
a premium,  awarded  only  to  those  who  are  the  first  in  literary 
merit.  Still  he  never  made  much  figure  at  college,  his  natural 
disinclination  to  study  being  increased  by  the  harsh  treatment  he 
continued  to  experience  from  his  tutor. 

Among  the  anecdotes  told  of  him  while  at  college,  is  one  indica- 
tive of  that  prompt  but  thoughtless  and . often  whimsical  benevo- 


26 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


lence  which  throughout  life  formed  one  of  the  most  eccentric, 
yet  endearing  points  of  his  character.  He  was  engaged  to  break- 
fast one  day  with  a college  intimate,  but  failed  to  make  his 
appearance.  His  friend  repaired  to  his  room,  knocked  at  the 
door  and  was  bidden  to  enter.  To  his  surprise,  he  found  Gold- 
smith in  his  bed,  immersed  to  his  chin  in  feathers.  A serio-comic 
story  explained  the  circumstance.  In  the  course  of  the  preceding 
evening’s  stroll  he  had  met  with  a woman  with  five  children,  who 
implored  his  charity.  Her  husband  was  in  the  hospital ; she  was 
just  from  the  country,  a stranger,  and  destitute,  without  food  or 
shelter  for  her  helpless  offspring.  This  was  too  much  for  the 
kind  heart  of  Goldsmith.  He  was  almost  as  poor  as  herself,  it 
is  true,  and  had  no  money  in  his  pocket ; but  he  brought  her 
to  the  college-gate,  gave  her  the  blankets  from  his  bed  to  cover 
her  little  brood,  and  part  of  his  clothes  for  her  to  sell  and  purchase 
food ; and,  finding  himself  cold  during  the  night,  had  cut  open 
his  bed  and  buried  himself  among  the  feathers. 

At  length,  on  the  27th  of  February,  1749,  0.  S.,  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Arts,  and  took  his  final  leave 
of  the  University.  He  was  freed  from  college  rule,  that  emanci- 
pation so  ardently  coveted  by  the  thoughtless  student,  and  which 
too  generally  launches  him  amid  the  cares,  the  hardships,  and 
vicissitudes  of  life.  He  was  freed,  too,  from  the  brutal  tyranny  of 
Wilder.  If  his  kind  and  placable  nature  could  retain  any  resent- 
ment for  past  injuries,  it  might  have  been  gratified  by  learning 
subsequently  that  the  passionate  career  of  Wilder  was  terminated 
by  a violent  death  in  the  course  of  a dissolute  brawl ; but 
Goldsmith  took  no  delight  in  the  misfortunes  even  of  his  enemies. 

He  now  returned  to  his  friends,  no  longer  the  student  to  sport 
away  the  happy  interval  of  vacation,  but  the  anxious  man,  who 
is  henceforth  to  shift  for  himself  and  make  his  way  through  the 
world.  In  fact,  he  had  no  legitimate  home  to  return  to.  At 
the  death  of  his  father,  the  paternal  house  at  Lissoy,  in  which 
Goldsmith  had  passed  his  childhood,  had  been  taken  by  Mr. 
Hodson,  who  had  married  his  sister  Catherine.  His  mother  had 


27 


RETURN  TO  FRIENDS. 

removed  to  Ballymahon,  where  she  occupied  a small  house,  and 
had  to  practise  the  severest  frugality.  His  elder  brother  Henry 
served  the  curacy  and  taught  the  school  of  his  late  father’s 
parish,  and  lived  in  narrow  circumstances  at  Goldsmith’s  birth- 
place, tlie  old  goblin-house  at  Pallas. 

None  of  his  relatives  were  in  circumstances  to  aid  him  with 
anything  more  than  a temporary  home,  and  the  aspect  of  every 
one  seemed  somewhat  changed.  In  fact,  his  career  at  college 
had  disappointed  his  friends,  and  they  began  to  doubt  his  being 
the  great  genius  they  had  fancied  him.  He  whimsically  alludes 
to  this  circumstance  in  that  piece  of  autobiography,  ‘‘The  Man 
in  Black,”  in  the  Citizen  of  the  World, 

“The  first  opportunity  iny  father  had  of  finding  his  expectations 
disappointed  was  in  the  middling  figure  I made  at  the  University  : 
he  had  flattered  himself  that  he  should  soon  see  me  rising  into  the 
foremost  rank  in  literary  reputation,  but  was  mortified  to  find  me 
utterly  unnoticed  and  unknown.  His  disappointment  might  have 
been  partly  ascribed  to  his  having  overrated  my  talents,  and  partly 
to  my  dislike  of  mathematical  reasonings  at  a time  when  my  imagi- 
nation and  memory,  yet  unsatisfied,  were  more  eager  after  new  objects 
than  desirous  of  reasoning  upon  those  I knew.  This,  however,  did 
not  please  my  tutors,  who  observed,  indeed,  that  1 was  a little  dull, 
but  at  the  same  time  allowed  that  I seemed  to  be  very  good-natured, 
and  had  no  harm  in  me.”  i 

The  only  one  of  his  relatives  who  did  not  appear  to  lose  faith 
in  him  was  his  uncle  Contarine.  This  kind  and  considerate  man, 
it  is  said,  saw  in  him  a warmth  of  heart  requiring  some  skill  to 
direct,  and  a latent  genius  that  wanted  time  to  mature ; and 
these  impressions  none  of  his  subsequent  follies  and  irregularities 
wholly  obliterated.  His  purse  and  affection,  therefore,  as  well 
as  his  house,  were  now  open  to  him,  and  he  became  his  chief 
counsellor  and  director  after  his  father’s  death.  He  urged  him 
to  prepare  for  holy  orders ; and  others  of  his  relatives  concurred 
in  the  advice.  Goldsmith  had  a settled  repugnance  to  a clerical 


1 Citizen  of  the  World,  letter  xxvif. 


28 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


life.  This  has  been  ascribed  by  some  to  conscientious  scruples, 
not  considering  himself  of  a temper  and  frame  of  mind  for  such 
a sacred  office ; others  attributed  it  to  his  roving  propensities,  and 
his  desire  to  visit  foreign  countries ; he  himself  gives  a whimsical 
objection  in  his  biography  of  the  “Man  in  Black”:  “To  be 
obliged  to  wear  a long  wig  when  I liked  a short  one,  or  a black 
coat  when  I generally  dressed  in  brown,  I thought  such  a restraint 
upon  my  liberty  that  I absolutely  rejected  the  proposal.” 

In  effect,  however,  his  scruples  were  overruled,  and  lie  agreed 
to  qualify  himself  for  the  office.  He  was  now  only  twenty-one, 
and  must  pass  two  years  of  probation.  They  were  two  years  of 
rather  loitering,  unsettled  life.  Sometimes  he  was  at  Lissoy, 
participating  with  thoughtless  enjoyment  in  the  rural  sports  and 
occupations  of  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Hodson  ; sometimes  he  was 
with  his  brother  Henry,  at  the  old  goblin  mansion  at  Pallas, 
assisting  him  occasionally  in  his  school.  The  early  marriage  and 
unambitious  retirement  of  Henry,  though  so  subversive  of  the 
fond  plans  of  his  father,  had  proved  happy  in  their  results.  He 
was  already  surrounded  by  a blooming  family ; he  was  contented 
with  his  lot,  beloved  by  his  parishioners,  and  lived  in  the  daily 
practice  of  all  the  amiable  virtues,  and  the  immediate  enjoyment 
of  their  reward.  Of  the  tender  affection  inspired  in  the  breast  of 
G-oldsmith  by  the  constant  kindness  of  this  excellent  brother, 
and  of  the  longing  recollection  with  which,  in  the  lonely  wander- 
ings of  after-years,  he  looked  back  upon  this  scene  of  domestic 
felicity,  we  have  a touching  instance  in  the  well-known  opening 
to  his  poem  of  The  Traveller : — ■ 

“Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow. 

Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld  or  wandering  Po ; 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

Where’er  I roam,  whatever  realms  to  see. 

My  heart  untravell’d  fondly  turns  to  thee  ; 

Still  to  my  brother  turns  with  ceaseless  pain. 

And  drags  at  each  remove  a lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 

And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend  ; 


ROBERT  BRYANTON, 


29 


Bless’d  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire; 

Bless’d  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair. 

And  every  stranger  finds  a ready  chair  : 

Bless’d  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown’d 

Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 

Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 

Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale  ; 

Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 

And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good.” 

During  this  loitering  life  Goldsmith  pursued  no  study,  but 
rather  amused  himself  with  miscellaneous  reading ; such  as  biog- 
raphy, travels,  poetry,  novels,  plays  — everything,  in  short,  that 
administered  to  the  imagination.  Sometimes  he  strolled  along 
the  banks  of  the  river  Inny ; where,  in  after-years,  when  he  had 
become  famous,  his  favorite  seats  and  haunts  used  to  be  pointed 
out.  Often  he  joined  in  the  rustic  sports  of  the  villagers,  and 
became  adroit  at  throwing  the  sledge,  a favorite  feat  of  activity 
and  strength  in  Ireland.  Kecollections  of  these  ‘‘  healthful  sports 
we  find  in  his  Deserted  Village : — 

“ How  often  have  I bless’d  the  coming  day. 

When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 

And  all  the  village  train,  from  labor  free. 

Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreading  tree  : 

And  many  a gambol  frolicked  o’er  the  ground. 

And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went  round.” 

A boon  companion  in  all  his  rural  amusements  was  his  cousin 
and  college  crony,  Robert  Bryanton,  with  whom  he  sojourned  oc- 
casionally at  Ballymulvey  House  in  the  neighborhood.  They  used 
to  make  excursions  about  the  country  on  foot,  sometimes  fishing, 
sometimes  hunting  otter  in  the  Inny.  They  got  up  a country  club 
at  the  little  inn  of  Ballymahon,  of  which  Goldsmith  soon  became 
the  oracle  and  prime  wit ; astonishing  his  unlettered  associates  by 
his  learning,  and  being  considered  capital  at  a song  and  a story. 
From  the  rustic  conviviality  of  the  inn  at  Ballymahon,  and  the 
company  which  used  to  assemble  there,  it  is  surmised  that  he 


30 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


took  some  hints  in  after-life  for  his  picturing  of  Tony  Lumpkin 
and  his  associates  : ‘‘  Dick  Muggins,  the  exciseman ; Jack  Slang, 
the  horse-doctor ; little  Aminidab,  that  grinds  the  music-box,  and 
Tom  Twist,  that  spins  the  pewter  platter.’’  Nay,  it  is  thought 
that  Tony’s  drinking-song  at  the  ‘‘Three  Jolly  Pigeons”  was  but 
a revival  of  one  of  the  convivial  catches  at  Ballymahon  : — 

“ Then  come  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and  clever, 

Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here’s  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  forever. 

Let  some  cry  of  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your  bustards,  your  ducks,  and  your  widgeons; 

But  of  all  the  gay  birds  in  the  air, 

Here’s  a health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 

Toroddle,  toroddle,  toroll.” 

Notwithstanding  all  these  accomplishments  and  this  rural 
popularity,  his  friends  began  to  shake  their  heads  and  shrug  their 
shoulders  when  they  spoke  of  him ; and  his  brother  Henry  noted 
with  anything  but  satisfaction  his  frequent  visits  to  the  club  at 
Ballymahon.  He  emerged,  however,  unscathed  from  this  danger- 
ous ordeal,  more  fortunate  in  this  respect  than  his  comrade  Bryan- 
ton ; but  he  retained  throughout  life  a fondness  for  clubs  : often, 
too,  in  the  course  of  his  checkered  career,  he  looked  back  to  this 
period  of  rural  sports  and  careless  enjoyments  as  one  of  the  few 
sunny  spots  of  his  cloudy  life ; and  though  he  ultimately  rose  to 
associate  with  birds  of  a finer  feather,  his  heart  would  still  yearn 
in  secret  after  the  “ Three  Jolly  Pigeons.” 


, CHAPTER  III. 

The  time  had  now  arrived  for  Goldsmith  to  apply  for  orders, 
and  he  presented  himself  accordingly  before  the  bishop  of  Elphin 
for  ordination.  We  have  stated  his  great  objection  to  clerical  life, 
the  obligation  to  wear  a black  coat ; and,  whimsical  as  it  may 
appear,  dress  seems  in  fact  to  have  formed  an  obstacle  to  his 


REJECTED  BY  THE  BISHOP. 


31 


entrance  into  the  church.  He  had  ever  a passion  for  clothing  his 
sturdy  but  awkward  little  person  in  gay  colors  ; and  on  this  solemn 
occasion,  when  it  was  to  be  supposed  his  garb  would  be  of  suit- 
able gravity,  he  appeared  luminously  arrayed  in  scarlet  breeches  ! 
He  was  rejected  by  the  bishop : some  say  for  want  of  sufficient 
studious  preparation ; his  rambles  and  frolics  with  Bob  Bryanton, 
and  his  revels  with  the  club  at  Ballymahon,  having  been  much  in 
the  way  of  his  theological  studies ; others  attribute  his  rejection 
to  reports  of  his  college  irregularities,  which  the  bishop  had 
received  from  his  old  tyrant  Wilder;  but  those  who  look  into  the 
matter  with  more  knowing  eyes,  pronounce  the  scarlet  breeches  to 
have  been  the  fundamental  objection.  “ My  friends,”  says  Gold- 
smith, speaking  through  his  humorous  representative,  the  ‘‘  Man 
in  Black,”  — “ my  friends  were  now  perfectly  satisfied  I was 
undone  ; and  yet  they  thought  it  a pity  for  one  that  had  not  the 
least  harm  in  him,  and  was  so  very  good-natured.”  His  uncle 
Contarine,  however,  still  remained  unwavering  in  his  kindness, 
though  much  less  sanguine  in  his  expectations.  He  now  looked 
round  for  a humbler  sphere  of  action,  and  through . his  influence 
and  exertions  Oliver  was  received  as  tutor  in  the  family  of  a Mr. 
Flinn,  a gentleman  of  the  neighborhood.  The  situation  was  ap- 
parently respectable  ; he  had  his  seat  at  the  table ; and  joined 
the  family  in  their  domestic  recreations  and  their  evening  game  at 
cards.  There  was  a servility,  however,  in  his  position,  which  was 
not  to  his  taste  ; nor  did  his  deference  for  the  family  increase 
upon  familiar  intercourse.  He  charged  a member  of  it  with 
unfair  play  at  cards.  A violent  altercation  ensued,  which  ended 
in  his  throwing  up  his  situation  as  tutor.  On  being  paid  off  he 
found  himself  in  possession  of  an  unheard-of  amount  of  money. 
His  wandering  propensity  and  his  desire  to  see  the  world  were 
instantly  in  the  ascendency.  Without  communicating  his  plans 
or  intentions  to  his  friends,  he  procured  a good  horse,  and,  with 
thirty  pounds  in  .his  pocket,  made  his  second  sally  forth  into  the 
world. 

The  worthy  niece  and  housekeeper  of  the  hero  of  La  Mancha 


32 


OLIVEU  GOLDSMITH, 


oould  not  have  been  more  surprised  and  dismayed  at  one  of  the 
Don’s  clandestine  expeditions  than  were  the  mother  and  friends  of 
Goldsmith,  when  they  heard  of  his  mysterious  departure.  Weeks 
elapsed,  and  nothing  was  seen  or  heard  of  him.  It  was  feared 
that  he  had  left  the  country  on  one  of  his  wandering  freaks,  and 
his  poor  mother  was  reduced  almost  to  despair,  when  one  day  he 
arrived  at  her  door  almost  as  forlorn  in  plight  as  the  prodigal  son. 
Of  his  thirty  pounds  not  a shilling  was  left ; and,  instead  of  the 
goodly  steed  on  which  he  had  issued  forth  on  his  errantry,  he  was 
mounted  on  a sorry  little  pony,  which  he  had  nicknamed  Fiddle- 
back.  As  soon  as  his  mother  was  well  assured  of  his  safety,  she 
rated  him  soundly  for  his  inconsiderate  conduct.  His  brothers 
and  sisters,  who  were  tenderly  attached  to  him,  interfered,  and 
succeeded  in  mollifying  her  ire  ; and  whatever  lurking  anger  the 
good  dame  might  have,  was  no  doubt  eftectually  vanquished  by 
the  following  whimsical  narrative  which  he  drew  up  at  his 
brother’s  house,  and  dispatched  to  her  : — 

My  dear  mother,  if  you  will  sit  down  and  calmly  listen  to  what  I 
say,  you  shall  be  fully  resolved  in  eveiy  one  of  those  many  questions 
you  have  asked  me.  I went  to  Cork  and  converted  my  horse,  which 
you  prize  so  much  higher  than  Fiddle-back,  into  cash,  took  my  pas- 
sage in  a ship  bound  for  America,  and,  at  the  same  time,  paid  the 
captain  for  my  freight  and  all  the  other  expenses  of  my  voyage.  But 
it  so  happened  that  the  wind  did  not  answer  for  three  weeks  ; and  you 
know,  mother,  that  I could  not  command  the  elements.  My  misfor- 
tune was,  that,  when  the  wind  served,  I happened  to  be  with  a party 
in  the  country,  and  my  friend,  the  captain,  never  inquired  after  me, 
but  set  sail  with  as  much  indifference  as  if  I had  been  on  board.  The 
remainder  of  my  time  I employed  in  the  city  and  its  environs,  view- 
ing everything  curious,  and  you  know  no  one  can  starve  while  he  has 
money  in  his  pocket. 

‘‘  Reduced,  however,  to  my  last  two  guineas,  I began  to  think  of 
my  dear  mother  and  friends  whom  I had  left  behind  me,  and  so 
bought  that  generous  beast,  Fiddle-back,  and  bade  adieu  to  Cork  with 
only  five  shillings  in  my  pocket.  This,  to  be  sure,  was  but  a scanty 
allowance  for  man  and  horse  towards  a journey  of  above  a hundred 
miles ; but  I did  not  despair,  for  I knew  I must  find  friends  on  the 
road. 


A HOSPITABLE  FRIEND, 


33 


“ I recollected  particularly  an  old  and  faithful  acquaintance  I made 
at  college,  who  had  often  and  earnestly  pressed  me  to  spend  a summer 
with  him,  and  he  lived  but  eight  miles  from  Cork.  This  circumstance 
of  vicinity  he  would  expatiate  on  to  me  with  peculiar  emphasis.  ‘ We 
shall,’  says  he,  ‘enjoy  the  delights  of  both  city  and  country,  and  you 
shall  command  my  stable  and  my  purse.’ 

“However,  upon  the  way  I met  a poor  woman  all  in  tears,  who 
told  me  her  husband  had  been  arrested  for  a debt  he  was  not  able  to 
pay,  and  that  his  eight  children  must  now  starve,  bereaved  as  they 
were  of  his  industry,  which  had  been  their  only  support.  I thought 
myself  at  home,  being  not  far  from  my  good  friend’s  house,  and  there- 
fore parted  with  a moiety  of  all  my  store  ; and  pray,  mother,  ought  I 
not  to  have  given  her  the  other  half-crown,  for  what  she  got  would  be 
of  little  use  to  her  ? However,  I soon  arrived  at  the  mansion  of  my 
affectionate  friend,  guarded  by  the  vigilance  of  a huge  mastiff,  who 
dew  at  me  and  would  have  torn  me  to  pieces  but  for  the  assistance  of 
a woman,  whose  countenance  was  not  less  grim  than  that  of  the  dog ; 
yet  she  with  great  humanity  relieved  me  from  the  jaws  of  this  Cer 
herns,  and  was  prevailed  on  to  carry  up  my  name  to  her  master. 

“ Without  suffering  me  to  wait  long,  my  old  friend,  who  was  then 
recovering  from  a severe  fit  of  sickness,  came  down  in  his  nightcap, 
nightgown,  and  slippers,  and  embraced  me  with  the  most  cordial  wel- 
come, showed  me  in,  and,  after  giving  me  a history  of  his  indisposi- 
tion, assured  me  that  he  considered  himself  peculiarly  fortunate  in 
having  under  his  roof  the  man  he  most  loved  on  earth,  and  whose 
stay  with  him  must,  above  all  things,  cont'^ibute  to  perfect  his  re- 
covery. I now  repented  sorely  I had  not  given  the  poor  woman  the 
other  half-crown,  as  I thought  all  my  bills  of  humanity  would  be 
punctually  answered  by  this  worthy  man.  I revealed  to  him  my 
whole  soul  ; I opened  to  him  all  my  distresses  ; and  freely  owned  that 
I had  but  one  half-crown  in  my  pocket  ; but  that  now,  like  a ship 
after  weathering  out  the  storm,  I considered  myself  secure  in  a safe 
and  hospitable  harbor.  He  made  no  answer,  but  walked  about  the 
room,  rubbing  his  hands  as  one  in  deep  study.  This  I imputed  to  the 
sympathetic  feelings  of  a tender  heart,  which  increased  my  esteem  for 
him,  and,  as  that  increased,  I gave  the  most  favorable  interpretation 
to  his  silence.  I construed  it  into  delicacy  of  sentiment,  as  if  he 
dreaded  to  wound  my  pride  by  expressing  his  commiseration  in 
words,  leaving  his  generous  conduct  to  speak  for  itself. 

“ It  now  approached  six  o’clock  in  the  evening  ; and  as  I had  eaten 
no  breakfast,  and  as  my  spirits  were  raised,  my  appetite  for  dinner 


34 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


grew  uncommonly  keen.  At  length  the  old  woman  came  into  the 
room  with  two  plates,  one  spoon,  and  a dirty  cloth,  which  she  laid  up- 
on the  table.  This  appearance,  without  increasing  my  spirits,  did  not 
diminish  my  appetite.  My  protectress  soon  returned  with  a small 
bowl  of  sago,  a small  porringer  of  sour  milk,  a loaf  of  stale  brown 
bread,  and  the  heel  of  an  old  cheese  all  over  crawling  with  mites.  My 
friend  apologized  that  his  illness  obliged  him  to  live  on  slops,  and  that 
better  fare  was  not  in  the  house  ; observing,  at  the  same  time,  that  a 
milk  diet  was  certainly  the  most  healthful ; and  at  eight  o’clock  he  again 
recommended  a regular  life,  declaring  that  for  his  part  he  would  lie 
down  with  the  lamb  and  rise  with  the  lark.  My  hunger  was  at  this 
time  so  exceedingly  sharp  that  I wished  for  another  slice  of  the  loaf, 
but  was  obliged  to  go  to  bed  without  even  that  refreshment. 

‘‘This  lenten  entertainment  I had  received  made  me  resolve  to 
depart  as  soon  as  possible  ; accordingly,  next  morning,  when  I spoke 
of  going,  he  did  not  oppose  my  resolution  ; he  rather  commended  my 
design,  adding  some  very  sage  counsel  upon  the  occasion.  ‘ To  be 
sure,’  said  he,  ‘ the  longer  you  stay  away  from  your  mother,  the  more 
you  will  grieve  her  and  your  other  friends  ; and  possibly  they  are 
already  afflicted  at  hearing  of  this  foolish  expedition  you  have  made.’ 
Notwithstanding  all  this,  and  without  any  hope  of  softening  such  a 
sordid  heart,  I again  renewed  the  tale  of  my  distress,  and  asking  ‘ how 
he  thought  I could  travel  above  a hundred  miles  upon  one  half- 
crown  ? ’ I begged  to  borrow  a single  guinea,  which  I assured  him 
should  be  repaid  with  thanks.  ‘ And  you  know,  sir,’  said  I,  ‘ it  is  no 
more  than  I have  done  for  you.’  To  which  he  firmly  answered, 
‘ Why,  look  you,  Mr.  Goldsmith,  that  is  neither  here  nor  there.  I 
have  paid  you  all  you  ever  lent  me,  and  this  sickness  of  mine  has  left  me 
bare  of  cash.  But  I have  bethought  myself  of  a conveyance  for  you  ; 
sell  your  horse,  and  I will  furnish  you  a much  better  one  to  ride  on.’  I 
readily  grasped  at  his  proposal,  and  begged  to  see  the  nag ; on  which 
he  led  me  to  his  bed-chamber,  and  from  under  the  bed  he  pulled  out  a 
stout  oak  stick.  ‘ Here  he  is,’  said  he  ; ‘ take  this  in  your  hand,  and 
it  will  carry  you  to  your  mother’s  with  more  safety  than  such  a horse 
as  you  ride.’  I was  in  doubt,  when  I got  it  into  my  hand,  whether  I 
should  not,  in  the  first  place,  apply  it  to  his  pate  ; but  a rap  at  the 
street-door  made  the  wretch  fly  to  it,  and  when  I returned  to  the  parlor 
he  introduced  me,  as  if  nothing  of  the  kind  had  happened,  to  the 
gentleman  who  entered,  as  Mr.  Goldsmith,  his  most  ingenious  and 
worthy  friend,  of  whom  he  had  so  often  heard  him  speak  with  rapture. 
I could  scarcely  compose  myself  ; and  must  have  betrayed  indignation 


PLEASANT  DAYS. 


35 


in  my  mien  to  the  stranger,  who  was  a counsellor-at-law  in  the  neighbor- 
hood, a man  of  engaging  aspect  and  polite  address. 

“ After  spending  an  hour,  he  asked  my  friefid  and  me  to  dine  with 
him  at  his  house.  This  I declined  at  first,  as  I wished  to  have  no 
farther  communication  with  my  hospitable  friend  ; but  at  the  solicita- 
tion of  both  I at  last  consented,  determined  as  I was  by  two  motives  : 
one,  that  I was  prejudiced  in  favor  of  the  looks  and  manner  of  the 
counsellor ; and  the  other,  that  I stood  in  need  of  a comfortable 
dinner.  And  there,  indeed,  I found  everything  that  I could  wish, 
abundance  without  profusion,  and  elegance  without  affectation.  In 
the  evening,  when  my  old  friend,  who  had  eaten  very  plentifully  at 
his  neighbor’s  table,  but  talked  again  of  lying  down  with  the  lamb, 
made  a motion  to  me  for  retiring,  our  generous  host  requested  I 
should  take  a bed  with  him,  upon  which  I plainly  told  my  old  friend 
that  he  might  go  home  and  take  care  of  the  horse  he  had  given  me, 
but  that  I should  never  reenter  his  doors.  He  went  away  with  a 
laugh,  leaving  me  to  add  this  to  the  other  little  things  the  counsellor 
already  knew  of  his  plausible  neighbor. 

“ And  now,  my  dear  mother,  I found  sufficient  to  reconcile  me  to 
all  my  follies  ; for  here  I spent  three  whole  days.  The  counsellor 
had  two  sweet  girls  to  his  daughters,  who  played  enchantingly  on  the 
harpsichord  ; and  yet  it  was  but  a melancholy  pleasure  I felt  the  first 
time  I heard  them  ; for  that  being  the  first  time  also  that  either  of 
them  had  touched  the  instrument  since  their  mother’s  death,  I saw  the 
tears  in  silence  trickle  down  their  father’s  cheeks.  I every  day  en- 
deavored to  go  away,  but  every  day  was  pressed  and  obliged  to  stay. 
On  my  going,  the  counsellor  offered  me  his  purse,  with  a horse  and 
servant  to  convey  me  home  ; but  the  latter  I declined,  and  only  took 
a guinea  to  bear  my  necessary  expenses  on  the  road. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“ To  Mrs.  Anne  Goldsmith,  Ballymahon.” 

Such  is  the  story  given  by  the  poet-errant  of  this  his  second 
sally  in  quest  of  adventures.  We  cannot  but  think  it  was  here 
and  there  touched  up  a little  with  the  fanciful  pen  of  the  future 
essayist,  with  a view  to  amuse  his  mother  and  soften  her  vexation ; 
but  even  in  these  respects  it  is  valuable  as  showing  the  early  play 
of  his  humor,  and  his  happy  knack  of  extracting  sweets  from 
that  worldly  experience  which  to  others  yields  nothing  but 
bitterness. 


36 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A NEW  consultation  was  held  among  Goldsmith’s  friends  as  tc 
his  future  course,  and  it  was  determined  he  should  try  the  law. 
His  uncle  Contarine  agreed  to  advance  the  necessary  funds,  and 
actually  furnished  him  with  fifty  pounds,  with  which  he  set  off  for 
London,  to  enter  on  his  studies  at  the  Temple.  Unfortunately,  he 
fell  in  company  at  Dublin  with  a Roscommon  acquaintance,  one 
whose  wits  liad  been  sharpened  about  town,  who  beguiled  him  into 
a gambling-house,  and  soon  left  him  as  penniless  as  when  he 
bestrode  the  redoubtable  Fiddle-back. 

He  was  so  ashamed  of  this  fresh  instance  of  gross  heedlessness 
and  imprudence,  that  he  remained  some  time  in  Dublin  without 
communicating  to  his  friends  his  destitute  condition.  They  heard 
of  it,  however,  and  he  was  invited  back  to  the  country,  and  indul- 
gently forgiven  by  his  generous  uncle,  but  less  readily  by  his 
mother,  who  was  mortified  and  disheartened  at  seeing  all  her 
early  hopes  of  him  so  repeatedly  blighted.  His  brother  Henry, 
too,  began  to  lose  patience  at  these  successive  failures,  resulting 
from  thoughtless  indiscretion  ; and  a quarrel  took  place,  which 
for  some  time  interrupted  their  usually  affectionate  intercourse. 

The  only  home  where  poor  erring  Goldsmith  still  received  a 
welcome,  was  the  parsonage  of  his  affectionate  forgiving  uncle. 
Here  he  used  to  talk  of  literature  with  the  good  simple-hearteil 
man,  and  delight  him  and  his  daughter  with  his  verses.  Jane, 
his  early  playmate,  was  now  the  woman  grown ; their  intercourse 
was  of  a more  intellectual  kind  than  formerly ; they  discoursed  of 
poetry  and  music ; she  played  on  the  harpsichord,  and  he  accom- 
panied her  with  his  flute.  The  music  may  not  have  been  very 
artistic,  as  he  never  performed  but  by  ear ; it  had  probably  as 
much  merit  as  the  poetry,  which,  if  we  may  judge  by  the  follow- 
ing specimen,  was  as  yet  but  juvenile  : — 


A VALENTINE. 


31 


TO  A YOUNG  LADY  ON  VALENTINE’S  DAY. 

WITH  THE  DRAWING  OP  A HEART. 

With  submission  at  your  shrine, 

Comes  a heart  your  Valentine 
From  the  side  where  once  it  grew, 

See  it  panting  flies  to  you. 

Take  it,  fair  one,  to  your  breast. 

Soothe  the  fluttering  thing  to  rest ; 

Let  the  gentle,  spotless  toy 
Be  your  sweetest,  greatest  joy  ; 

Every  night  when  wrapp’d  in  sleep. 

Next  your  heart  the  conquest  keep  ; 

Or  if  dreams  your  fancy  move. 

Hear  it  whisper  me  and  love  ; 

Then  in  pity  to  the  swain, 

Who  must  heartless  else  remain, 

Soft  as  gentle  dewy  show’rs. 

Slow  descend  on  April  flow’rs; 

Soft  as  gentle  riv’lets  glide. 

Steal  unnoticed  to  my  side  ; 

If  the  gem  you  have  to  spare. 

Take  your  own  and  place  it  there. 

If  this  Valentine  was  intended  for  the  fair  Jane,  and  expressive 
of  a tender  sentiment  indulged  by  the  stripling  poet,  it  was  un- 
availing ; as  not  long  afterwards  she  was  married  to  a Mr. 
Lawder.  We  trust,  however,  it  was  but  a poetical  passion  of 
that  transient  kind  which  grows  up  in  idleness  and  exhales  itself 
in  rhyme.  While  Oliver  was  thus  piping  and  poetizing  at  the 
parsonage,  his  uncle  Contarine  received  a visit  from  Dean  Gold 
smith  of  Cloyne,  — a kind  of  magnate  in  the  wide  but  improvi- 
dent family  connection,  throughout  which  his  word  was  law  and 
almost  gospel.  This  august  dignitary  was  pleased  to  discover 
signs  of  talent  in  Oliver,  and  suggested  that,  as  he  had  attempted 
divinity  and  law  without  success,  he  should  now  try  physic.  The 
advice  came  from  too  important  a source  to  be  disregarded,  and  it 
was  determined  to  send  him  to  Edinburgh  to  commence  his  studies* 


38 


OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH, 


The  Dean  having  given  the  advice,  added  to  it,  we  trust,  his 
blessing,  but  no  money  ; that  was  furnished  from  the  scantier 
purses  of  Goldsmith’s  brother,  his  sister  (Mrs.  Hodson),  and  his 
ever-ready  uncle,  Contarine. 

It  was  in  the  autumn  of  1752  that  Goldsmith  arrived  in  Edin- 
burgh. His  outset  in  that  city  came  near  adding  to  the  list  of 
his  indiscretions  and  disasters.  Having  taken  lodgings  at  haphaz- 
ard, he  left  his  trunk  there,  containing  all  his  worldly  effects,  and 
sallied  forth  to  see  the  town.  After  sauntering  about  the  streets 
until  a late  hour,  he  thought  of  returning  home,  when,  to  his  con- 
fusion, he  found  he  had  not  acquainted  himself  with  the  name 
either  of  his  landlady  or  of  the  street  in  which  she  lived.  Fortu- 
nately, in  the  height  of  his  whimsical  perplexity,  he  met  the 
cawdy  or  porter  who  had  carried  his  trunk,  and  who  now  served 
him  as  a guide. 

He  did  not  remain  long  in  the  lodgings  in  which  he  had  put  up. 
The  hostess  was  too  adroit  at  that  hocuspocus  of  the  table  which 
often  is  practised  in  cheap  boarding-houses.  Ho  one  could  conjure 
a single  joint  through  a greater  variety  of  forms.  A loin  of  mut- 
ton, according  to  Goldsmith’s  account,  would  serve  him  and  two 
fellow-students  a whole  week.  “ A brandered  chop  was  served  up 
one  day,  a fried  steak  another,  collops  with  onion-sauce  a third, 
and  so  on  until  the  fleshy  parts  were  quite  consumed,  when  finally 
a dish  of  broth  was  manufactured  from  the  bones  on  the  seventh 
day,  and  the  landlady  rested  from  her  labors.”  Goldsmith  had  a 
good-humored  mode  of  taking  things,  and  for  a short  time  amused 
himself  with  the  shifts  and  expedients  of  his  landlady,  which 
struck  him  in  a ludicrous  manner ; he  soon,  however,  fell  in  with 
fellow-students  from  his  own  country,  whom  he  joined  at  more 
eligible  quarters. 

He  now  attended  medical  lectures,  and  attached  himself  to  an 
association  of  students  called  the  Medical  Society.  He  set  out,  as 
usual,  with  the  best  intentions,  but,  as  usual,  soon  fell  into  idle, 
convivial,  thoughtless  habits.  Edinburgh  was  indeed  a place  of 
sore  trial  for  one  of  his  temperament.  Convivial  meetings  were 


THE  MOCK  GHOST. 


39 


all  the  vogue,  and  the  tavern  was  the  universal  rally ing-place 
of  good-fellowship.  And  then  Goldsmith’s  intimacies  lay  chiefly 
among  the  Irish  students,  who  were  always  ready  for  a wild  freak 
and  frolic.  Among  them  he  was  a prime  favorite  and  somewhat 
of  a leader,  from  his  exuberance  of  spirits,  his  vein  of  humor,  and 
his  talent  at  singing  an  Irish  song  and  telling  an  Irish  story. 

His  usual  carelessness  in  money-matters  attended  him.  Though 
his  supplies  from  home  were  scanty  and  irregular,  he  never  could 
bring  himself  into  habits  of  prudence  and  economy ; often  he  was 
stripped  of  all  his  present  finances  at  play  ; often  he  lavished 
them  away  in  fits  of  unguarded  charity  or  generosity.  Sometimes 
among  his  boon  companions  he  assumed  a ludicrous  swagger  in 
money-matters,  which  no  one  afterward  was  more  ready  than  him- 
self to  laugh  at.  At  a convivial  meeting  with  a number  of  his 
fellow-students  he  suddenly  proposed  to  draw  lots  with  any  one 
j)resent  which  of  the  two  should  treat  the  whole  party  to  the  play. 
The  moment  the  proposition  had  bolted  from  his  lips,  his  heart 
was  in  his  throat.  “ To  my  great  though  secret  joy,”  said  he, 
‘‘they  all  declined  the  challenge.  Had  it  been  accepted,  and  had 
I proved  the  loser,  a part  of  my  wardrobe  must  have  been  pledged 
in  order  to  raise  the  money.” 

At  another  of  these  meetings  there  was  an  earnest  dispute  on 
the  question  of  ghosts,  some  being  firm  believers  in  the  possibility 
of  departed  spirits  returning  to  visit  their  friends  and  familiar 
haunts.  One  of  the  disputants  set  sail  the  next  day  for  London, 
but  the  vessel  put  back  tlirough  stress  of  weather.  His  return 
was  unknown  except  to  one  of  the  believers  in  ghosts,  who  con- 
certed with  him  a trick  to  be  played  off  on  the  opposite  party. 
In  the  evening,  at  a meeting  of  the  students,  the  discussion  wa-s 
renewed ; and  one  of  the  most  strenuous  opposers  of  ghosts  was 
asked  whether  he  considered  himself  proof  against  ocular  demon- 
stration. He  persisted  in  his  scoffing.  Some  solemn  process  of 
conjuration  was  performed,  and  the  comrade  supposed  to  be  on  his 
way  to  London  made  his  appearance.  The  effect  was  fatal  The 
unbeliever  fainted  at  the  sight,  and  ultimately  weijt  mad.  We 


40 


OLIVER  GOLBSMITIL 


have  no  account  of  what  share  Goldsmith  took  in  this  transaction, 
at  which  he  was  present. 

The  following  letter  to  his  friend  Bryanton  contains  some  of 
Goldsmith’s  impressions  concerning  Scotland  and  its  inhabitants, 
and  gives  indications  of  that  humor  which  characterized  some  of 
his  later  writings. 


^ “ Robert  Bryanton^  at  Ballymahon^  Ireland, 

“ Edinburgh,  September  26th,  1753. 

My  dear  Bob,  — 

“How  many  good  excuses  (and  you  know  I was  ever  good  at  an 
excuse)  might  I call  up  to  vindicate  my  past  shameful  silence.  I 
might  tell  how  I wrote  a long  letter  on  my  first  coming  hither,  and 
seem  vastly  angry  at  my  not  receiving  an  answer;  I might  allege 
that  business  (with  business  you  know  I was  always  pestered)  had 
never  given  me  time  to  finger  a pen.  But  I suppress  those  and 
twenty  more  as  plausible,  and  as  easily  invented,  since  they  might  be 
attended  with  a slight  inconvenience  of  being  known  to  be  lies.  Let 
me  then  speak  truth.  An  hereditary  indolence  (I  have  it  from  the 
mother’s  side)  has  hitherto  prevented  my  writing  to  you,  and  still 
prevents  my  writing  at  least  twenty-five  letters  more,  due  to  my 
friends  in  Ireland.  No  turnspit-dog  gets  up  into  his  wheel  with  more 
reluctance  than  I sit  down  to  write  ; yet  no  dog  ever  loved  the  roast 
meat  he  turns  better  than  I do  him  I now  address. 

“Yet  what  shall  I say  now  I am  entered  ? Shall  I tire  you  with  a 
description  of  this  unfruitful  country  ; where  I must  lead  you  over 
their  hills  all  brown  with  heath,  or  their  valleys  scarcely  able  to  feed 
a rabbit  ? Man  alone  seems  to  be  the  only  creature  who  has  arrived 
to  the  natural  size  in  this  poor  soil.  Every  part  of  the  country  pre- 
sents the  same  dismal  landscape.  No  grove,  nor  brook,  lend  their 
music  to  cheer  the  stranger,  or  make  the  inhabitants  forget  their  pov- 
erty. Yet  with  all  these  disadvantages  to  call  him  down  to  humility, 
a Scotchman  is  one  of  the  proudest  things  alive.  The  poor  have  pride 
ever  ready  to  relieve  them.  If  mankind  should  happen  to  despise 
them,  they  are  masters  of  their  own  admiration ; and  that  they  can 
plentifully  bestow  upon  themselves. 

“ From  their  pride  and  poverty,  as  I take  it,  results  one  advantage 
this  country  enjoys;  namely,  the  gentlemen  here  are  much  better 
bred  than  among  us.  No  such  character  here  as  our  fox-hunters ; 


SKETCHES  OF  SCOTLAND, 


41 


and  they  have  expressed  great  surprise  when  1 informed  tliem  that 
some  men  in  Ireland,  of  one  thousand  pounds  a year,  spend  their 
whole  lives  in  running  after  a hare,  and  drinking  to  be  drunk.  Truly, 
if  such  a being,  equipped  in  his  hunting-dress,  came  among  a circle  of 
Scotch  gentry,  they  would  behold  him  with  the  same  astonishment 
that  a countryman  does  King  George  on  horseback. 

“The  men  here  have  generally  high  cheek  bones,  and  are  lean  and 
swarthy,  fond  of  action,  dancing  in  particular.  Now  that  I have 
mentioned  dancing,  let  me  say  something  of  their  balls,  which  are 
very  frequent  here.  When  a stranger  enters  the  dancing-hall,  he 
sees  one  end  of  the  room  taken  up  by  the  ladies,  who  sit  dismally  in  a 
group  by  themselves  ; — in  the  other  end  stand  their  pensive  partners 
that  are  to  be  ; — but  no  more  intercourse  between  the  sexes  than 
there  is  between  two  countries  at  war.  The  ladies  indeed  may  ogle, 
and  the  gentlemen  sigh ; but  an  embargo  is  laid  on  any  closer  com- 
merce. At  length,  to  interrupt  hostilities,  the  lady  directress,  or 
intendant,  or  what  you  will,  pitches  upon  a lady  and  gentleman  to 
walk  a minuet ; which  they  perform  with  a formality  that  approaches 
to  despondence.  After  five  or  six  couple  have  thus  walked  the  gaunt- 
let, all  stand  up  to  country  dances ; each  gentleman  furnished  with  a 
partner  from  the  aforesaid  lady  directress  ; so  they  dance  much,  say 
nothing,  and  thus  concludes  our  assembly.  I told  a Scotch  gentleman 
that  such  profound  silence  resembled  the  ancient  procession  of  the 
Roman  matrons  in  honor  of  Ceres  ; and  the  Scotch  gentleman  told  me 
(and  faith  I believe  he  was  right)  that  I was  a very  great  pedant  for 
my  pains. 

“ Now  I am  come  to  the  ladies ; and  to  show  that  I love  Scotland, 
and  everything  that  b^ongs  to  so  charming  a country,  I insist  on  it, 
and  will  give  him  leave  to  break  my  head  that  denies  it  — that  the 
Scotch  ladies  are  ten  thousand  times  finer  and  handsomer  than  the 
Irish.  To  be  sure,  now,  I see  your  sisters  Betty  and  Peggy  vastly 
surprised  at  my  partiality,  — but  tell  them  flatly,  I don’t  value 

them  — or  their  fine  skins,  or  eyes,  or  good  sense,  or , a potato  ; 

— for  I say,  and  will  maintain  it ; and  as  a convincing  proof  (I  am  in 
a great  passion)  of  what  I assert,  the  Scotch  ladies  say  it  themselves. 
But  to  be  less  serious  ; where  will  you  find  a language  so  prettily  be- 
come a pretty  mouth  as  the  broad  Scotch  ? And  the  women  here 
speak  it  in  its  highest  purity ; for  instance,  teach  one  of  your  young 
ladies  at  home  to  pronounce  the  ‘ Whoar  wull  I gong  ? ’ with  a be- 
coming widening  of  mouth,  and  I’ll  lay  my  life  they’ll  wound  every 
hearer. 


42 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“ We  have  no  such  character  here  as  a coquette,  but  alas  ! how 
many  envious  prudes ! Some  days  ago  I walked  into  my  Lord  Kil- 
coubry’s  (don’t  be  surprised,  my  lord  is  but  a glover), i when  the 
Duchess  of  Hamilton  (that  fair  who  sacrificed  her  beauty  to  her 
ambition,  and  her  inward  peace  to  a title  and  gilt  equipage)  passed 
by  in  her  chariot ; her  battered  husband,  or  more  properly  the 
guardian  of  her  charms,  sat  by  her  side.  Straight  envy  began,  in 
the  shape  of  no  less  than  three  ladies  who  sat  with  me,  to  find  faults 
in  her  faultless  form. — ‘ For  my  part,’  says  the  first,  ‘I  think  what 
I always  thought,  that  *the  Duchess  has  too  much  of  the  red  in  her 
complexion.’  ‘ Madam,  I am  of  your  opinion,’  says  the  second  ; ‘ I 
think  her  face  has  a palish  cast  too  much  on  the  delicate  order.’ 
‘ And,  let  me  tell  you,’  added  the  third  lady,  whose  mouth  was 
puckered  up  to  the  size  of  an  issue,  ‘ that  the  Duchess  has  fine  lips,  but 
she  wants  a mouth.  ’ — At  this  every  lady  drew  up  her  mouth  as  if 
going  to  pronounce  the  letter  P. 

“But  how  ill,  my  Bob,  does  it  become  me  to  ridicule  women  with 
whom  I have  scarcely  any  correspondence  ! There  are,  ’tis  certain, 
handsome  women  here  ; and  ’tis  certain  they  have  handsome  men  to 
keep  them  company.  An  ugly  and  poor  man  is  society  only  for 
himself ; and  such  society  the  world  lets  me  enjoy  in  great  abundance. 
Fortune  has  given  you  circumstances,  and  Nature  a person  to  look 
charming  in  the  eyes  of  the  fair.  Nor  do  I envy  my  dear  Bob  such 
blessings,  while  I may  sit  down  and  laugh  at  the  world  and  at  my- 
self— the  most  ridiculous  object  in  it.  But  you  see  I am  grown 
downright  splenetic,  and  perhaps  the  fit  may  continue  till  I receive 
an  answer  to  this.  I know  you  cannot  send  me  much  news  from 
Ballymahon,  but  such  as  it  is,  send  it  all ; everything  you  send  will 
be  agreeable  to  me. 

“Has  George  Conway  put  up  a sign  yet;  or  John  Binley  left  off 
drinking  drams  ; or  Tom  Allen  got  a new  wig  ? But  I leave  you  to 
your  own  choice  what  to  write.  While  I live,  know  you  have  a true 
friend  in  yours,  &c„  &c.,  &c.  „ Goldsmith. 

“P.S.  — Give  my  sincere  respects  (not  compliments,  do  you  mind) 
to  your  agreeable  family,  and  give  my  service  to  my  mother,  if  you 
see  her  ; for,  as  you  express  it  in  Ireland,  I have  a sneaking  kindness 
for  her  still.  Direct  to  me, , Student  in  Physic,  in  Edinburgh.” 

1 William  Maclellan,  wlio  claimed  the  title,  and  whose  son  succeeded  in 
establishing  the  claim  in  1773.  The  father  is  said  to  have  voted  at  the 
election  of  the  sixteen  Peers  for  Scotland ; and  to  have  sold  gloves  in 
the  lobby  at  this  and  other  public  assemblages. 


TRIALS  OF  TOADYISM, 


43 


Nothing  worthy  of  preservation  appeared  from  his  pen  during 
his  residence  in  Edinburgh ; and  indeed  his  poetical  powers, 
highly  as  they  had  been  estimated  by  his  friends,  had  not  as  yet 
produced  anything  of  superior  merit.  He  made  on  one  occasion  a 
month’s  excursion  to  the  Highlands.  ‘‘I  set  out  the  first  day  on 
foot,”  says  he,  in  a letter  to  his  uncle  Contarine,  “but  an  ill- 
natured  corn  I have  on  my  toe  has  for  the  future  prevented  that 
cheap  mode  of  travelling ; so  the  second  day  I hired  a horse, 
about  the  size  of  a ram,  and  he  walked  away  (trot  he  could  not) 
as  pensive  as  his  master.” 

During  his  residence  in  Scotland  his  convivial  talents  gained 
him  at  one  time  attentions  in  a high  quarter,  which,  however,  he 
had  the  good  sense  to  appreciate  correctly.  “ I have  spent,” 
says  he,  in  one  of  his  letters,  “more  than  a fortnight  every  second 
day  at  the  Duke  of  Hamilton’s  ; but  it  seems  they  like  me  more 
as  a jester  than  as  a companion,  so  I disdained  so  servile  an 
employment  as  unworthy  my  calling  as  a physician.”  Here  we 
again  find  the  origin  of  another  passage  in  his  autobiography, 
under  the  character  of  the  “ Man  in  Black,”  wherein  that  worthy 
figures  as  a flatterer  to  a great  man. 

“At  first,”  says  he,  “I  was  surprised  that  the  situation  of  a 
flatterer  at  a great  man’s  table  could  be  thought  disagreeable ; there 
was  no  great  trouble  in  listening  attentively  when  his  lordship  spoke, 
and  laughing  when  he  looked  round  for  applause.  This,  even  good 
manners  might  have  obliged  me  to  perform.  I found,  however,  too 
soon,  his  lordship  was  a greater  dunce  than  myself,  and  from  that 
moment  flattery  was  at  an  end.  I now  rather  aimed  at  setting  him 
right  than  at  receiving  his  absurdities  with  submission  : to  flatter 
those  we  do  not  know  is  an  easy  task  ; but  to  flatter  our  intimate  ac- 
quaintances, all  whose  foibles  are  strongly  in  our  eyes,  is  drudgery 
insupportable.  Every  time  I now  opened  my  lips  in  praise,  my  false- 
hood went  to  my  conscience  ; his  lordship  soon  perceived  me  to  be 
very  unfit  for  his  service  : I was  therefore  discharged  ; my  patron  at 
the  same  time  being  graciously  pleased  to  observe  that  he  believed  I 
was  tolerably  good-natured  and  had  not  the  least  harm  in  me.” 

After  spending  two  winters  at  Edinburgh,  Goldsmith  prepared 
to  finish  his  medical  studies  on  the  Continent,  for  which  his 


44 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


uncle  Contarine  agreed  to  furnish  the  funds.  “ I intend,  ” said 
he,  in  a letter  to  his  uncle,  “ to  visit  Paris,  where  the  great 
Farheim,  Petit,  and  Du  Hamel  de  Monceau  instruct  their  pupils 
in  all  the  branches  of  medicine.  They  speak  French,  and  con- 
sequently I shall  have  much  the  advantage  of  most  of  my  country- 
men, as  I am  perfectly  acquainted  with  that  language,  and  few  who 
leave  Ireland  are  so.  I shall  spend  the  spring  and  summer  in 
Paris,  and  the  beginning  of  next  winter  go  to  Leyden.  The  great 
Albinus  is  still  alive  there,  and  Twill  be  proper  to  go,  though  only 
to  have  it  said  that  we  have  studied  in  so  famous  a university. 

‘‘As  I shall  not  have  another  opportunity  of  receiving  money 
from  your  bounty  till  my  return  to  Ireland,  so  I have  drawn  for 
the  last  sum  that  I hope  I shall  ever  trouble  you  for;  Tis  .£20. 
And  now,  dear  sir,  let  me  here  acknowledge  the  humility  of  the 
station  in  which  you  found  me ; let  me  tell  how  I was  despised 
l)y  most,  and  hateful  to  myself  Poverty,  hopeless  poverty,  was 
my  lot,  and  Melancholy  was  beginning  to  make  me  her  own,  when 

you But  I stop  here,  to  inquire  how  your  health  goes  on  h 

How  does  my  cousin  Jenny,  and  has  she  recovered  her  late  com- 
plaint ? How  does  my  poor  Jack  Goldsmith  ? I fear  his  disorder 
is  of  such  a nature  as  he  won’t  easily  recover.  I wish,  my  dear  sir, 
you  would  make  me  happy  by  another  letter  before  I go  abroad,  for 
there  I shall  hardly  hear  from  you.  . . . Give  my  — how  shall  I 
express  it?  — give  my  earnest  love  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lawder.” 

Mrs.  Lawder  was  Jane,  his  early  playmate  — the  object  of  his 
valentine  — his  first  poetical  inspiration.  She  had  been  for  some 
time  married. 

Medical  instruction,  it  will  be  perceived,  was  the  ostensible 
motive  for  this  visit  to  the  Continent,  but  the  real  one,  in  all 
probability,  was  his  long-cherished  desire  to  see  foreign  parts.  This, 
however,  he  would  not  acknowledge  even  to  himself,  but  sought  to 
reconcile  his  roving  propensities  with  some  grand  moral  purpose. 
“I  esteem  the  traveller  who  instructs  the  heart,”  says  he,  in  one  of 
his  subsequent  writings,  “ but  I despise  him  who  only  indulges  the 
imagination.  A man  who  leaves  home  to  mend  himself  and  others. 


A poet's  purse. 


45 


is  a philosopher ; hut  he  who  goes  from  country  to  country,  guided 
by  the  blind  impulse  of  curiosity,  is  only  a vagabond.”  He,  of 
course,  was  to  travel  as  a philosopher,  and  in  truth  his  outfits  for 
a Continental  tour  were  in  character.  “ I shall  carry  just  <£33  to 
France,”  said  he,  “with  good  store  of  clothes,  shirts,  &c.,  and  that 
with  economy  will  suffice.”  He  forgot  to  make  mention  of  his 
flute,  which  it  will  be  found  had  occasionally  to  come  in  play  when 
economy  could  not  replenish  his  purse,  nor  philosophy  find  him  a 
supper.  Thus  slenderly  provided  with  money,  prudence,  or  ex- 
perience, and  almost  as  slightly  guarded  against  “ hard  knocks  ” 
as  the  hero  of  La  Mancha,  whose  head-piece  was  half  iron,  half 
pasteboard,  he  made  his  final  sally  forth  upon  the  world ; hoping 
all  things ; believing  all  things  : little  anticipating  the  checkered 
ills  in  store  for  him  ; little  thinking  when  he  penned  his  valedic- 
tory letter  to  his  good  uncle  Contarine,  that  he  was  never  to  see 
him  more ; never  to  return  after  all  his  wandering  to  the  friend  of 
his  infancy  : never  to  revisit  his  early  and  fondly  remembered 
haunts  at  “sweet  Lissoy”  and  Ballymahon. 


CHAPTER  V. 

His  usual  indiscretion  attended  Goldsmith  at  the  very  outset 
of  his  foreign  enterprise.  He  had  intended  to  take  shipping  at 
Leith  for  Holland ; but  on  arriving  at  that  port,  he  found  a ship 
about  to  sail  for  Bordeaux,  with  six  agreeable  passengers,  whose 
acquaintance  he  had  probably  made  at  the  inn.  He  was  not  a 
man  to  resist  a sudden  impulse ; so,  instead  of  embarking  for  Hol- 
land, he  found  himself  ploughing  the  seas  on  his  way  to  the  other 
side  of  the  Continent.  Scarcely  had  the  ship  been  two  days 
at  sea,  when  she  was  driven  by  stress  of  weather  to  Newcastle- 
upon-Tyne.  Here  “of  course”  Goldsmith  and  his  agreeable 
fellow-passengers  found  it  expedient  to  go  on  shore  and  “ refresh 
themselves  after  the  fatigues  of  the  voyage.”  “ Of  course  ” they 
frolicked  and  made  merry  until  a late  liour  in  the  evening,  when, 


46 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


in  the  midst  of  their  hilarity,  the  door  was  burst  open,  and  a ser- 
geant and  twelve  grenadiers  entered  with  fixed  bayonets,  and  took 
the  whole  convivial  party  prisoners. 

It  seems  that  the  agreeable  companions  with  whom  our  green- 
horn had  struck  up  such  a sudden  intimacy,  were  Scotchmen  in 
the  French  service,  who  had  been  in  Scotland  enlisting  recruits  for 
the  French  army. 

In  vain  Goldsmith  protested  his  innocence ; he  was  marched  off 
with  his  fellow-travellers  to  prison,  whence  he  with  difficulty  ob- 
tained his  release  at  the  end  of  a fortnight.  With  his  customary 
facility,  however,  at  palliating  his  misadventures,  he  found  every- 
thing turn  out  for  the  best.  His  imprisonment  saved  his  life,  for 
during  his  detention  the  ship  proceeded  on  her  voyage,  but  was 
wrecked  at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne,  and  all  on  board  perished. 

Goldsmith’s  second  embarkation  was  for  Holland  direct,  and  in 
nine  days  he  arrived  at  Kotterdam,  whence  he  proceeded,  without 
any  more  deviations,  to  Leyden.  He  gives  a whimsical  picture,  in 
one  of  his  letters,  of  the  appearance  of  the  Hollanders.  “ The 
modern  Dutchman  is  quite  a different  creature  from  him  of  former 
times  : he  in  everything  imitates  a Frenchman  but  in  his  easy, 
disengaged  air.  He  is  vastly  ceremonious,  and  is,  perhaps,  exactly 
what  a Frenchman  might  have  been  in  the  reign  of  Louis  XIV. 
Such  are  the  better  bred.  But  the  downright  Hollander  is  one 
of  the  oddest  figures  in  nature.  Upon  a lank  head  of  hair  he  wears 
a half-cocked  narrow  hat,  laced  with  black  ribband ; no  coat,  but 
seven  waistcoats  and  nine  pair  of  breeches,  so  that  his  hips  reach 
up  almost  to  his  armpits.  This  well-clothed  vegetable  is  now  fit 
to  see  company  or  make  love.  But  what  a pleasing  creature  is 
the  object  of  his  appetite  ! why,  she  wears  a large  fur  cap,  with  a 
deal  of  Flanders  lace ; and  for  every  pair  of  breeches  he  carries, 
she  puts  on  two  petticoats. 

“ A Dutch  lady  burns  nothing  about  her  phlegmatic  admirer 
but  his  tobacco.  You  must  know,  sir,  every  woman  carries  in  her 
hand  a stove  of  coals,  which,  when  she  sits,  she  snugs  under  her 
petticoats,  and  at  this  chimney,  dozing  Strephon  lights  his  pipe.^’ 


SKETCHES  OF  HOLLAND. 


47 


In  the  same  letter  he  contrasts  Scotland  and  Holland.  “ There, 
hills  and  rocks  intercept  every  prospect ; here,  it  is  all  a con- 
tinued plain.  There  you  might  see  a well-dressed  Duchess  issu- 
ing from  a dirty  close,  and  here  a dirty  Dutchman  inhabiting  a 
palace.  The  Scotch  may  be  compared  to  a tulip,  planted  in 
dung ; but  I can  never  see  a Dutchman  in  his  own  house,  but  I 
think  of  a magnificent  Egyptian  temple  dedicated  to  an  ox.’’ 

The  country  itself  awakened  his  admiration.  ‘‘  Nothing,”  said 
he,  can  equal  its  beauty ; wherever  I turn  my  eyes,  fine  houses, 
elegant  gardens,  statues,  grottos,  vistas,  present  themselves ; but 
when  you  enter  their  towns,  you  are  charmed  beyond  description. 
No  misery  is  to  be  seen  here,  every  one  is  usefully  employed.” 
And  again,  in  his  noble  description  in  The  Traveller : — 

“ To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 

Imbosom’d  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 

Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand. 

Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land, 

And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide, 

Lifts  the  tall  rampire’s  artificial  pride. 

Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 

The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  grow ; 

Spreads  its  long  arms  amid  the  watery  roar, 

Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 

While  the  pent  ocean,  rising  o’er  the  pile 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  before  him  smile : 

The  slow  canal,  the  yellow  blossom’d  vale. 

The  willow-tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail. 

The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 

A new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign.” 

He  remained  about  a year  at  Leyden,  attending  the  lectures  of 
Gaubius  on  chemistry  and  Albinus  on  anatomy ; though  his 
studies  are  said  to  have  been  miscellaneous,  and  directed  to  litera- 
ture rather  than  science.  The  thirty-three  pounds  with  which  he 
had  set  out  on  his  travels  were  soon  consumed,  and  he  was  put 
to  many  a shift  to  meet  his  expenses  until  his  precarious  remit- 
tances should  arrive.  He  had  a good  friend  on  these  occasions 
in  a fellow-student  and  countryman,  named  Ellis,  who  afterwards 


48 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


rose  to  eminence  as  a physician.  He  used  frequently  to  loan 
small  sums  to  Goldsmith,  which  were  always  scrupulously  paid. 
Ellis  discovered  the  innate  merits  of  the  poor  awkward  student, 
and  used  to  declare  in  after-life  that  it  was  a common  remark 
in  Leyden,  that  in  all  the  peculiarities  of  Goldsmith,  an  elevation 
of  mind  was  to  be  noted  ; a philosophical  tone  and  manner ; the 
feelings  of  a gentleman,  and  the  language  and  information  of  a 
scholar.” 

Sometimes,  in  his  emergencies.  Goldsmith  undertook  to  teach 
the  English  language.  It  is  true  he  was  ignorant  of  the  Dutch, 
but  he  had  a smattering  of  the  French,  picked  up  among  the  Irish 
priests  at  Ballymahon.  He  depicts  his  whimsical  embarrassment 
in  this  respect,  in  his  account  in  the  Vicar  of  Wahefield  of  the 
‘‘  philosophical  vagabond,”  who  went  to  Holland  to  teach  the  natives 
English,  without  knowing  a word  of  their  own  language.  Some- 
times, when  sorely  pinched,  and  sometimes,  perhaps,  when  hush, 
he  resorted  to  the  gambling-tables,  which  in  those  days  abounded 
in  Holland.  His  good  friend  Ellis  repeatedly  warned  him  against 
this  unfortunate  propensity,  but  in  vain.  It  brought  its  own 
cure,  or  rather  its  own  punishment,  by  stripping  him  of  every 
shilling. 

Ellis  once  more  stepped  in  to  his  relief  with  a true  Irishman’s 
generosity,  but  with  more  considerateness  than  generally  charac- 
terizes an  Irishman,  for  he  only  granted  pecuniary  aid  on  condi- 
tion of  his  quitting  the  sphere  of  danger.  Goldsmith  gladly 
consented  to  leave  Holland,  being  anxious  to  visit  other  parts. 
He  intended  to  proceed  to  Paris  and  pursue  his  studies  there,  and 
was  furnished  by  his  friend  with  money  for  the  journey.  Un- 
luckily, he  rambled  into  the  garden  of  a florist  just  before  quit- 
ting Leyden.  The  tulip-mania  was  still  prevalent  in  Holland, 
and  some  species  of  that  splendid  flower  brought  immense  prices. 
In  wandering  through  the  garden.  Goldsmith  recollected  that  his 
uncle  Contarine  was  a tulip-fancier.  The  thought  suddenly  struck 
him  that  here  was  an  opportunity  of  testifying,  in  a delicate  man- 
ner, his  sense  of  that  generous  nucleus  past  kindnesses.  In  an 


THE  PROVIDENT  FLUTE. 


49 


instant  his  hand  was  in  his  pocket ; a number  of  choice  and  costly 
tulip-roots  were  purchased  and  packed  up  for  Mr.  Contarine ; and 
it  was  not  until  he  had  paid  for  them  that  he  bethought  himself 
that  he  had  spent  all  the  money  borrowed  for  his  travelling  ex- 
penses. Too  proud,  however,  to  give  up  his  journey,  and  too 
shamefaced  to  make  another  appeal  to  his  friend’s  liberality,  he 
determined  to  travel  on  foot,  and  depend  upon  chance  and  good 
luck  for  the  means  of  getting  forward ; and  it  is  said  that  he 
actually  set  off  on  a tour  of  the  Continent,  in  February,  1755, 
with  but  one  spare  shirt,  a flute,  and  a single  guinea. 

‘‘  Blessed,”  says  one  of  his  biographers,  “ with  a good  constitu- 
tion, an  adventurous  spirit,  and  with  that  thoughtless,  or,  per- 
haps, happy  disposition  which  takes  no  care  for  to-morrow,  he 
continued  his  travels  for  a long  time  in  spite  of  innumerable 
privations.”  In  his  amusing  narrative  of  the  adventures  of  a 
“ Philosophic  Vagabond  ” in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield^  we  find 
shadowed  out  the  expedients  he  pursued.  “ I had  some  knowl- 
edge of  music,  with  a tolerable  voice ; I now  turned  what  was 
once  my  amusement  into  a present  means  of  subsistence.  I passed 
among  the  harmless  peasants  of  Flanders,  and  among  such  of  the 
French  as  were  poor  enough  to  be  very  merry,  for  I ever  found 
them  sprightly  in  proportion  to  their  wants.  Whenever  I ap- 
proached a peasant’s  house  towards  nightfall,  I played  one  of  my 
merriest  tunes,  and  that  procured  me  not  only  a lodging,  but  sub- 
sistence for  the  next  day ; but  in  truth  I must  own,  whenever  I 
attempted  to  entertain  persons  of  a higher  rank,  they  always 
thought  my  performance  odious,  and  never  made  me  any  return 
for  my  endeavors  to  please  them.” 

At  Paris  he  attended  the  chemical  lectures  of  Rouelle,  then  in 
great  vogue,  where  he  says  he  witnessed  as  bright  a circle  of 
beauty  as  graced  the  court  of  Versailles.  His  love  of  theatricals 
also  led  him  to  attend  the  performances  of  the  celebrated  actress 
Mademoiselle  Clairon,  with  which  he  was  greatly  delighted.  He 
seems  to  have  looked  upon  the  state  of  society  with  the  eye  of  a 
philosopher,  but  to  have  read  the  signs  of  the  times  with  the 


50 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


prophetic  eye  of  a poet.  In  his  rambles  about  the  environs  of 
Paris  he  was  struck  with  the  immense  quantities  of  game  running 
about  almost  in  a tame  state ; and  saw  in  those  costly  and  rigid 
preserves  for  the  amusement  and  luxury  of  the  privileged  few, 
a sure  “badge  of  the  slavery  of  the  people,’’  This  slavery  he  pre- 
dicted was  drawing  towards  a close.  “When  I consider  that 
these  parliaments,  the  members  of  which  are  all  created  by  the 
court,  and  the  presidents  of  which  can  only  act  by  immediate  di- 
rection, presume  even  to  mention  privileges  and  freedom,  who  till 
of  late  received  directions  from  the  throne  with  implicit  humility ; 
when  this  is  considered,  I cannot  help  fancying  that  the  genius  of 
Freedom  has  entered  that  kingdom  in  disguise.  If  they  have  but 
three  weak  monarchs  more  successively  on  the  throne,  the  mask 
will  be  laid  aside,  and  the  country  will  certainly  once  more  be 
free.”  Events  have  testified  to  the  sage  forecast  of  the  poet. 

During  a brief  sojourn  in  Paris,  he  appears  to  have  gained  ac- 
cess to  valuable  society,  and  to  have  had  the  honor  and  pleasure 
of  making  the  acquaintance  of  V oltaire  : of  whom,  in  after-years, 
he  wrote  a memoir.  “As  a companion,”  says  he,  “ no  man  ever 
exceeded  him  when  he  pleased  to  lead  the  conversation ; which, 
hovfever,  was  not  always  the  case.  In  company  which  he  either 
disliked  or  despised,  few  could  be  more  reserved  than  he;  but 
when  he  was  warmed  in  discourse,  and  got  over  a hesitating  man- 
ner, which  sometimes  he  was  subject  to,  it  was  rapture  to  hear 
him.  His  meagre  visage  seemed  insensibly  to  gather  beauty  : 
every  muscle  in  it  had  meaning,  and  his  eye  beamed  with  unusual 
brightness.  The  person  who  writes  this  memoir,”  continues  he, 
“ remembers  to  have  seen  him  in  a select  company  of  wits  of  both 
sexes  at  Paris,  when  the  subject  happened  to  turn  upon  English 
taste  and  learning.  Fontenelle,  (then  nearly  a hundred  years 
old,)  who  was  of  the  party,  and  who  being  unacquainted  with  the 
language  or  authors  of  the  country  he  undertook  to  condemn, 
with  a spirit  truly  vulgar  began  to  revile  both.  Diderot,  who 
liked  the  English,  and  knew  something  of  their  literary  pretensions, 
attempte(l  to  vindicate  their  poetry  and  learning,  but  with  unequal 


SKF/n^lI  OF  VOLT  AT  TIE, 


51 


abilities.  The  company  quickly  perceived  that  Foiitciielle  was 
superior  in  the  dispute,  and  were  surprised  at  the  silence  which 
Voltaire  had  preserved  all  the  former  part  of  the  night,  particu- 
larly as  the  conversation  happened  to  turn  upon  one  of  his  fa- 
vorite topics.  Fontenelle  continued  his  triumph  until  about 
twelve  o’clock,  when  Voltaire  appeared  at  last  roused  from  Ids 
reverie.  His  whole  frame  seemed  animated.  He  began  his  de- 
fence with  the  utmost  defiance  mixed  with  spirit,  and  now  and 
then  let  fall  the  finest  strokes  of  raillery  upon  his  antagonist ; and 
his  harangue  lasted  till  three  in  the  morning.  I must  confess, 
that,  whether  from  national  partiality,  or  from  the  elegant  sensi- 
bility of  his  manner,  I never  was  so  charmed,  nor  did  I ever  re- 
member so  absolute  a victory  as  he  gained  in  this  dispute.” 
Goldsmith’s  ramblings  took  him  into  Germany  and  Switzerland, 
from  which  last-mentioned  country  he  sent  to  his  brother  in  Ire- 
land the  first  brief  sketch,  afterwards  amplified  into  his  poem  of 
the  Traveller. 

At  Geneva  he  became  travelling  tutor  to  a mongrel  young  gen- 
tleman, son  of  a London  pawnbroker,  who  had  been  suddenly  ele- 
vated into  fortune  and  absurdity  by  the  death  of  an  uncle.  The 
youth,  before  setting  up  for  a gentleman,  had  been  an  attorney’s 
apprentice,  and  was  an  arrant  pettifogger  in  money-matters. 
Never  were  two  beings  more  illy  assorted  than  he  and  Goldsmith. 
We  may  form  an  idea  of  the  tutor  and  the  pupil  from  the  follow- 
ing extract  from  the  narrative  of  the  ‘‘  Philosophic  Vagabond.” 

“I  was  to  be  the  young  gentleman’s  governor,  but  with  a proviso 
that  he  could  always  be  permitted  to  govern  himself.  My  pupil,  in 
fact,  understood  the  art  of  guiding  in  money-concerns  much  better 
than  I.  He  was  heir  to  a fortune  of  about  two  hundred  thousand 
pounds,  left  him  by  an  uncle  in  the  West  Indies  ; and  his  guardians, 
to  qualify  him  for  the  management  of  it,  had  bound  him  apprentice  to 
an  attorney.  Thus  avarice  w^as  his  prevailing  passion  ; all  his  ques- 
tions on  the  road  were,  how  money  might  be  saved,  — which  was  the 
least  expensive  course  of  travel, — whether  anything  could  be  bought 
that  would  turn  to  account  when  disposed  of  again  in  London  ? Such 
curiosities  on  the  way  as  could  be  seen  for  nothing  he  was  ready 


50 


52 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


pr 

al 

pi 

a 

di 

tl 

C( 

r( 

0 

y 

I 

t 

A 

i 


enough  to  look  at  ; but  if  the  sight  of  them  was  to  be  paid  for,  h( 
usually  asserted  that  he  had  been  told  that  they  were  not  worth  see 
ing.  He  never  paid  a bill  that  he  would  not  observe  how  amazingl} 
expensive  travelling  was,  and  all  this  though  not  yet  twenty-one.” 

In  this  sketch  Goldsmith  undoubtedly  shadows  forth  his  an 
noyances  as  travelling  tutor  to  this  concrete  young  gentleman, 
compounded  of  the  pawnbroker,  the  pettifogger,  and  the  Wes1 
Indian  heir,  with  an  overlaying  of  the  city  miser.  They  had  con 
tinual  difficulties  on  all  points  of  expense  until  they  reached  Mar 
seilles,  where  both  were  glad  to  separate. 

Once  more  on  foot,  but  freed  from  the  irksome  duties  of  ‘‘  bear- 
leader,” and  with  some  of  his  pay,  as  tutor,  in  his  pocket.  Gold 
smith  continued  his  half  vagrant  peregrinations  through  part  oi 
France  and  Piedmoffi  " some  of  the  Italian  States.  He  hac 
acquired,  as  has  been  sl  a habit  of  shifting  along  and  living 

by  expedients,  and  a new  xie  presented  itself  in  Italy.  ‘‘  My  skil 
in  music,”  says  he,  in  the  “ Philosophic  Vagabond,”  “could  aval 
me  nothing  in  a country  where  every  peasant  was  a better  musi 
cian  than  I ; but  by  this  time  I had  acquired  another  talent, 
which  answered  my  purpose  as  well,  and  this  was  a skill  in  dispu- 
tation. In  all  the  foreign  universities  and  convents  there  are, 
upon  certain  days,  philosophical  theses  maintained  against  everj 
adventitious  disputant,  for  which,  if  the  champion  opposes  witi 
any  dexterity,  he  can  claim  a gratuity  in  money,  a dinner,  and  g 
bed  for  one  night.”  Though  a poor  wandering  scholar,  his  recep- 
tion in  these  learned  piles  was  as  free  from  humiliation  as  in  th( 
cottages  of  the  peasantry.  “ With  the  members  of  these  estab 
lishments,”  said  he,  “I  could  converse  on  topics  of  literature,  ana 
then  I ahvays  forgot  the  meanness  of  my  circumstances. 

At  Padua,  where  he  remained  some  months,  he  is  said  to  have 
taken  his  medical  degree.  It  is  probable  he  was  brought  to  i 
pause  in  this  city  by  the  illness  of  his  uncle  Contarine  ; who  hac 
hitherto  assisted  him  in  his  wanderings  by  occasional,  though,  oi 
course,  slender  remittances.  Deprived  of  this  source  of  supplies 
he  wrote  to  his  friends  in  Ireland,  and  especially  to  his  brother-in 


A WANDERING  SCHOLAR. 


53 


law,  Hodsoii,  describing  his  destitute  situation.  His  letters  brought 
him  neither  money  nor  reply.  It  appears,  from  subsequent  cor- 
respondence, that  his  brother-in-law  actually  exerted  himself  to 
raise  a subscription  for  his  assistance  among  his  relatives,  friends, 
and  acquaintance,  but  without  success.  Their  faith  and  hope  in 
him  were  most  probably  at  an  end ; as  yet  he  had  disappointed 
them  at  every  point,  he  had  given  none  of  the  anticipated  proofs 
of  talent,  and  they  were  too  poor  to  support  what  they  may  have 
considered  the  wandering  propensities  of  a heedless  spendthrift. 

Thus  left  to  his  own  precarious  resources.  Goldsmith  gave  up  all 
further  wandering  in  Italy,  without  visiting  the  south,  though 
Kome  and  Naples  must  have  held  out  powerful  attractions  to  one 
of  his  poetical  cast.  Once  more  resuming  his  pilgrim  staff,  he 
turned  his  face  toward  England,  “ walking  along  from  city  to  city, 
examining  mankind  more  nearly,  and  se^  ^ both  sides  of  the 
picture.”  In  traversing  France,  his  flut^  ^ ^ magic  flute!  — 
was  once  more  in  requisition,  as  we  may  conclude  by  the  follow- 
ing passage  in  his  Traveller  : — 


“ Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 

Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please, 
How  often  have  I lead  thy  sportive  choir 
With  tuneless  pipe  beside  the  murmuring  Loire  ! 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 

And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew  ; 

And  haply  though  my  harsh  note  fait’ ring  still, 

But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marr’d  the  dancer’s  skill ; 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 

Alike  all  ages  : Dames  of  ancient  days 

Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze. 

And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill’d  in  gestic  lore. 

Has  frisk’d  beneath  the  burden  of  three-score.” 


OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

After  two  years  spent  in  roving  about  the  Continent,  ‘‘  pursu- 
ing novelty,”  as  he  said,  “ and  losing  content,”  Goldsmith  landed 
at  Dover  early  in  1756.  He  appears  to  have  had  no  definite 
plan  of  action.  The  death  of  his  uncle  Contarine,  and  the 
neglect  of  his  relatives  and  friends  to  reply  to  his  letters,  seem  to 
have  produced  in  him  a temporary  feeling  of  loneliness  and  destitu- 
tion, and  his  only  thought  was  to  get  to  London,  and  throw  him- 
self upon  the  world.  But  how  was  he  to  get  there  ? His  purse 
was  empty.  England  was  to  him  as  completely  a foreign  land  as 
any  part  of  the  Continent,  and  where  on  earth  is  a penniless 
stranger  more  destitute  ? His  flute  and  his  philosophy  were  no 
longer  of  any  avail ; the  English  boors  cared  nothing  for  music ; 
there  were  no  convents ; and  as  to  the  learned  and  the  clergy,  not 
one  of  them  would  give  a vagrant  scholar  a supper  and  night’s 
lodging  for  the  best  thesis  that  ever  was  argued.  ‘‘You  may 
easily  imagine,”  says  he,  in  a subsequent  letter  to  his  brother-in- 
law,  “ what  difficulties  I had  to  encounter,  left  as  I was  without 
friends,  recommendations,  money,  or  impudence,  and  that  in  a 
country  where  being  born  an  Irishman  was  sufficient  to  keep  me 
unemployed.  Many,  in  such  circumstances,  would  have  had  re- 
course to  the  friar’s  cord  or  the  suicide’s  halter.  But,  with  all  my 
follies,  I had  principle  to  resist  the  one,  and  resolution  to  combat 
the  other.” 

He  applied  at  one  place,  we  are  told,  for  employment  in  the  shop 
of  a country  apothecary ; but  all  his  medical  science  gathered  in 
foreign  universities  could  not  gain  him  the  management  of  a pestle 
and  mortar.  He  even  resorted,  it  is  said,  to  the  stage  as  a tem- 
porary expedient,  and  figured  in  low  comedy  at  a country  town  in 
Kent.  This  accords  with  his  last  shift  of  the  Philosophic  Vaga- 
bond, and  with  the  knowledge  of  country  theatricals  displayed  in 
his  Adventures  of  a Strolling  Player^  or  may  be  a story  sug- 
gested by  them.  All  this  part  of  his  career,  however,  in  which  he 


SHIFTS  FOn  MONEY. 


55 


must  have  trod  the  lowest  paths  of  humility,  are  only  to  be  con- 
jectured  from  vague  traditions,  or  scraps  of  autobiography  gleaned 
from  his  miscellaneous  writings. 

At  length  we  find  him  launched  on  the  great  metropolis,  or 
rather  drifting  about  its  streets,  at  night,  in  the  gloomy  month  of 
February,  with  but  a few  half-pence  in  his  pocket.  The  Deserts 
of  Arabia  are  not  more  dreary  and  inhospitable  than  the  streets  of 
London  at  such  a time,  and  to  a stranger  in  such  a plight.  Do  we 
want  a picture  as  an  illustration?  We  have  it  in  his  own  words, 
and  furnished,  doubtless,  from  his  own  experience. 

‘‘  The  clock  has  just  struck  two  ; what  a gloom  hangs  all  around  ! 
no  sound  is  heard  but  of  the  chiming  clock,  or  the  distant  watch -dog. 
How  few  appear  in  those  streets,  which  but  some  few  hours  ago  were 
crowded  ! But  who  are  those  who  make  the  streets  their  couch,  and 
find  a short  repose  from  wretchedness  at  the  doors  of  the  opulent  ? 
They  are  strangers,  wanderers,  and  orphans,  whose  circumstances  are 
too  humble  to  expect  redress,  and  w^hose  distresses  are  too  great  even 
for  pity.  Some  are  without  the  covering  even  of  rags,  and  others 
emaciated  with  disease  ; the  world  has  disclaimed  them  ; society  turns 
its  back  upon  their  distress,  and  has  given  them  up  to  nakedness  and 
hunger.  These  poor  shivering  females  have  once  seen  happier  days., 
and  been  flattered  into  beauty.  They  are  now  turned  out  to  meet  the 
severity  of  winter.  Perhaps  now,  lying  at  the  doors  of  their  betrayers, 
they  sue  to  wretches  whose  hearts  are  insensible,  or  debauchees  who 
may  curse,  but  will  not  relieve  them. 

“ Why,  why  was  I born  a man,  and  yet  see  the  sufferings  of 
wretches  I cannot  relieve  ! Poor  houseless  creatures  ! The  world  will 
give  you  reproaches,  but  will  not  give  you  relief.” 

Poor  houseless  Goldsmith ! we  may  here  ejaculate  — to  what 
shifts  he  must  have  been  driven  to  find  shelter  and  sustenance  for 
himself  in  this  his  first  venture  into  London  ! Many  years  after- 
Y/ards,  in  the  days  of  his  social  elevation,  he  startled  a polite  circle 
at  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  by  humorously  dating  an  anecdote  about 
the  time  he  “lived  among  the  beggars  of  Axe  Lane.”  Such  may 
have  been  the  desolate  quarters  with  which  he  was  fain  to  content 
himself  when  thus  adrift  upon  the  town,  with  but  a few  half-pence 
in  bis  pocket. 


56 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


The  first  authentic  trace  we  have  of  him  in  this  new  part  of  his 
career,  is  filling  the  situation  of  an  usher  to  a school,  and  even  this 
employ  he  obtained  with  some  difficulty,  after  a reference  for  a 
character  to  his  friends  in  the  University  of  Dublin.  In  the  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  he  makes  George  Primrose  undergo  a whimsical  cate- 
chism concerning  the  requisites  for  an  usher.  ‘‘Have  you  been 
bred  apprentice  to  the  business?’’  “No.”  “Then  you  won’t  do 
for  a school.  Can  you  dress  the  boys’ hair?”  “No.”  “Then 
you  won’t  do  for  a school.  Can  you  lie  three  in  a bed?”  “No.” 
“ Then  you  will  never  do  for  a school.  Have  you  a good  stom- 
ach ? ” “Yes.”  “ Then  you  will  by  no  means  do  for  a school.  I 
have  been  an  usher  in  a boarding-school  myself,  and  may  I die  of 
an  anodyne  necklace,  but  I had  rather  be  under-turnkey  in  New- 
gate. I was  up  early  and  late : I was  browbeat  by  the  master, 
hated  for  my  ugly  face  by  the  mistress,  worried  by  the  boys.” 

Goldsmith  remained  but  a short  time  in  this  situation,  and  to 
the  mortifications  experienced  there  we  doubtless  owe  the  pictur- 
ings  given  in  his  writings  of  the  hardships  of  an  usher’s  life. 
“ He  is  generally,”  says  he,  “ the  laughing-stock  of  the  school: 
Every  trick  is  played  upon  him ; the  oddity  of  his  manner,  his 
dress,  or  his  language,  is  a fund  of  eternal  ridicule;  the  master 
himself  now  and  then  cannot  avoid  joining  in  the  laugh ; and  the 
poor  wretch,  eternally  resenting  this  ill-usage,  lives  in  a state  of 
war  with  all  the  family.  . . . He  is  obliged,  perhaps,  to  sleep  in 
the  same  bed  with  the  French  teacher,  who  disturbs  him  for  an 
hour  every  night  in  papering  and  filleting  his  hair,  and  stinks  worse 
than  a carrion  with  his  rancid  pomatums,  when  he  lays  his  head 
beside  him  on  the  bolster.” 

His  next  shift  was  as  assistant  in  the  laboratory  of  a chemist 
near  Fish-Street  Hill.  After  remaining  here  a few  months,  he 
heard  that  Dr.  Sleigh,  who  had  been  his  friend  and  fellow-student 
at  Edinburgh,  was  in  London.  Eager  to  meet  with  a friendly  face 
in  this  land  of  strangers,  he  immediately  called  on  him ; “ but 
though  it  was  Sunday,  and  it  is  to  be  supposed  I was  in  my  best 
clothes,  Sleigh  scarcely  knew  me  — such  is  the  tax  the  unfortunate 


A DOCTOR  IN  THE  SUBURB. 


57 


pay  to  poverty.  However,  when  he  did  recollect  me,  I found  his 
heart  as  warm  as  ever,  and  he  shared  his  purse  and  friendship  with 
me  during  his  continuance  in  London.’’ 

Through  the  advice  and  assistance  of  Dr.  Sleigh,  he  now  com- 
menced the  practice  of  medicine,  but  in  a small  way,  in  Bankside, 
Southwark,  and  chiefly  among  the  poor ; for  he  wanted  the  figure, 
address,  polish,  and  management,  to  succeed  among  the  rich.  His 
old  schoolmate  and  college  companion,  Beatty,  who  used  to  aid 
him  with  his  purse  at  the  university,  met  him  about  this  time, 
decked  out  in  the  tarnished  finery  of  a second-hand  suit  of  green 
and  gold,  witli  a shirt  and  neckcloth  of  a fortnight’s  wear. 

Poor  Goldsmith  endeavored  to  assume  a prosperous  air  in  the 
eyes  of  his  early  associate.  “ He  was  practising  physic,”  he  said, 
“and  doing  very  well  U'  At  this  moment  poverty  was  pinching 
him  to  the  bone  in  spite  of  his  practice  and  his  dirty  finery.  His 
fees  were  necessarily  small  and  ill  paid,  and  he  was  fain  to  seek 
some  precarious  assistance  from  his  pen.  Here  his  quondam  fel- 
low-student, Dr.  Sleigh,  was  again  of  service,  introducing  him  to 
some  of  the  booksellers,  who  gave  him  occasional,  though  starve- 
ling, employment.  According  to  tradition,  however,  his  most  effi- 
cient patron  just  now  was  a journeyman  printer,  one  of  his  poor 
patients  of  Bankside,  who  had  formed  a good  opinion  of  his  tal- 
ents, and  perceived  his  poverty  and  his  literary  shifts.  The 
printer  was  in  the  employ  of  Mr.  Samuel  Richardson,  the  author 
of  Pamela^  Clarissa,  and  Sir  Charles  Grandison  ; who  combined 
the  novelist  and  the  publisher,  and  was  in  flourishing  circum- 
stances. Through  the  journeyman’s  intervention  Goldsmitli  is 
said  to  have  become  acquainted  with  Richardson,  who  employed 
him  as  reader  and  corrector  of  the  press,  at  his  printing  establish- 
ment in  Salisbury  Court,  — an  occupation  which  he  alternated 
with  his  medical  duties. 

Being  admitted  occasionally  to  Richardson’s  parlor,  he  began  to 
form  literary  acquaintances,  among  whom  the  most  important 
was  Dr.  Young,  the  author  of  Night  Thoughts,  a poem  in  the 
height  of  fashion.  It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  much  famili- 


58 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


arity  took  place  at  the  time  between  the  literary  lion  of  the  day  and 
the  poor  ^Esculapius  of  Bankside,  the  humble  corrector  of  the  press. 
Still  the  communion  with  literary  men  had  its  effect  to  set  his 
imagination  teeming.  Dr.  Farr,  one  of  his  Edinburgh  fellow- 
students,  who  was  at  London  about  this  time,  attending  the  hos- 
pitals and  lectures,  gives  us  an  amusing  account  of  Goldsmith  in 
his  literary  character. 

“ Early  in  January  he  called  upon  me  one  morning  before  I was 
up,  and,  on  my  entering  the  room,  I recognized  my  old  acquaint- 
ance, dressed  in  a rusty,  full-trimmed  black  suit,  with  his  pockets 
full  of  papers,  which  instantly  reminded  me  of  the  poet  in  Gar- 
rick^s  farce  of  ‘ Lethe.’  After  we  had  finished  our  breakfast,  he 
drew  from  his  pocket  part  of  a tragedy,  which  he  said  he  had 
brought  for  my  correction.  In  vain  I pleaded  inability,  when  he 
began  to  read ; and  every  part  on  which  I expressed  a doubt  as  to 
the  propriety  was  immediately  blotted  out.  I then  most  earnestly 
pressed  him  not  to  trust  to  my  judgment,  but  to  take  the  opinion 
of  persons  better  qualified  to  decide  on  dramatic  compositions. 
He  now  told  me  he  had  submitted  his  production,  so  far  as  he  had 
written,  to  Mr.  Richardson,  the  author  of  Clarissa,  on  which  I 
peremptorily  declined  offering  another  criticism  on  the  perform- 
ance.” 

From  the  graphic  description  given  of  him  by  Dr.  Farr,  it  will 
be  perceived  that  the  tarnished  finery  of  green  and  gold  had  been 
succeeded  by  a professional  suit  of  black,  to  which,  we  are  told, 
were  added  the  wig  and  cane  indispensable  to  medical  doctors  in 
those  days.  The  coat  was  a second-hand  one,  of  rusty  velvet,  with 
a patch  on  the  left  breast,  which  he  adroitly  covered  with  his. 
three-cornered  hat  during  his  medical  visits;  and  we  have  an 
amusing  anecdote  of  his  contest  of  courtesy  with  a patient  who 
persisted  in  endeavoring  to  relieve  him  from  the  hat,  which  only 
made  him  press  it  more  devoutly  to  his  heart. 

Nothing  further  has  ever  been  heard  of  the  tragedy  mentioned 
by  Dr.  Farr  ; it  was  probably  never  completed.  The  same  gentle- 
man speaks  of  a strange  Quixotic  scheme  which  Goldsmith  had  in 


LIFE  OF  A PEDAGOGUE, 


59 


contemplation  at  the  time,  ‘‘  of  going  to  decipher  the  inscriptions 
on  the  written  mountains^  though  he  was  altogether  ignorant  of 
Arabic,  or  the  language  in  which  they  might  be  supposed  to  be 
written.  The  salary  of  three  hundred  pounds,”  adds  Dr.  Farr, 
‘‘which  had  been  left  for  the  purpose,  was  the  temptation.”  This 
was  probably  one  of  the  many  dreamy  projects  with  which  his 
fervid  brain  was  apt  to  teem.  On  such  subjects  he  was  prone  to 
talk  vaguely  and  magnificently,  but  inconsiderately,  from  a 
kindled  imagination  rather  than  a well-instructed  judgment. 
He  had  always  a great  notion  of  expeditions  to  the  East,  and  won- 
ders to  be  seen  and  effected  in  the  Oriental  countries. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Among  the  most  cordial  of  Goldsmith’s  intimates  in  London 
during  this  time  of  precarious  struggle,  were  certain  of  his  former 
fellow- students  in  Edinburgh.  One  of  these  was  the  son 
of  a Dr.  Milner,  a dissenting  minister,  who  kept  a classical 
school  of  eminence  at  Peckham,  in  Surrey.  Young  Milner  had  a 
favorable  opinion  of  Goldsmith’s  abilities  and  attainments,  and 
cherished  for  him  that  goodwill  which  his  genial  nature  seems  ever 
to  have  inspired  among  his  school  and  college  associates.  His 
father  falling  ill,  the  young  man  negotiated  with  Goldsmith 
to  take  temporary  charge  of  the  school.  The  latter  readily 
consented ; for  he  was  discouraged  by  the  slow  growth  of 
medical  reputation  and  practice,  and  as  yet  had  no  confidence 
in  the  coy  smiles  of  the  Muse.  Laying  by  his  wig  and  cane, 
therefore,  and  once  more  wielding  the  ferule,  he  resumed  the 
character  of  the  pedagogue,  and  for  some  time  reigned  as 
vicegerent  over  the  academy  at  Peckham.  He  appears  to 
have  been  well  treated  by  both  Dr.  Milner  and  his  wife ; and 
became  a favorite  with  the  scholars  from  his  easy,  indulgent 
good-nature.  He  mingled  in  their  sports ; told  them  droll 
stories;  played  on  the  flute  for  their  amusement,  and  spent 


60 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


his  money  in  treating  them  to  sweetmeats  and  other  school- 
boy dainties.  His  familiarity  was  sometimes  carried  too  far ; 
he  indulged  in  boyish  pranks  and  practical  jokes,  and  drew 
upon  himself  retorts  in  kind,  which,  however,  he  bore  with 
great  good-humor.  Once,  indeed,  he  was  touched  to  the  quick  by 
a piece  of  schoolboy  pertness.  After  playing  on  the  flute,  he 
spoke  with  enthusiasm  of  music,  as  delightful  in  itself,  and  as 
a valuable  accomplishment  for  a gentleman,  whereupon  a young- 
ster, with  a glance  at  his  ungainly  person,  wished  to  know  if 
lie  considered  himself  a gentleman.  Poor  Goldsmith,  feelingly 
alive  to  the  awkwardness  of  his  appearance  and  the  humility  of 
his  situation,  winced  at  this  unthinking  sneer,  which  long  rankled 
in  his  mind. 

As  usual,  while  in  Dr.  Milner’s  employ,  his  benevolent  feel- 
ings were  a heavy  tax  upon  his  purse,  for  he  never  could  re- 
sist a tale  of  distress,  and  was  apt  to  be  fleeced  by  every  sturdy 
beggar;  so  that,  between  his  charity  and  his  munificence,  he 
was  generally  in  advance  of  his  slender  salary.  “ You  had  better, 
Mr.  Goldsmith,  let  me  take  care  of  your  money,”  said  Mrs. 
Milner  one  day,  “as  I do  for  some  of  the  young  gentlemen.” 
“ In  truth,  madam,  there  is  equal  need ! ” was  the  good-humored 
reply. 

Dr.  Milner  was  a man  of  some  literary  pretensions,  and 
wrote  occasionally  for  the  Monthly  Review^  of  wkich  a book- 
seller, by  the  name  of  Griffiths,  was  proprietor.  This  work  was 
an  advocate  for  Whig  principles,  and  had  been  in  prosperous 
existence  for  nearly  eight  years.  Of  late,  however,  periodicals 
had  multiplied  exceedingly,  and  a formidable  Tory  rival  had 
started  up  in  the  Critical  Review^  published  by  Archibald  Ham- 
ilton, a bookseller,  and  aided  by  the  powerful  and  popular  pen 
of  Dr.  Smollett.  Griffiths  was  obliged  to  recruit  his  forces. 
While  so  doing  he  met  Goldsmith,  a humble  occupant  of  a 
seat  at  Dr.  Milner’s  table,  and  was  struck  with  remarks  on 
men  and  books,  which  fell  from  him  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion. He  took  occasion  to  sound  him  privately  as  to  his 


THE  GRIFFITHS. 


61 


inclination  and  capacity  as  a reviewer,  and  was  furnished  by 
him  with  specimens  of  his  literary  and  critical  talents.  They 
proved  satisfactory.  The  consequence  was  that  Goldsmith  once 
more  changed  his  mode  of  life  and  in  April,  1757,  became  a 
contributor  to  the  Monthly  Review^  at  a small  fixed  salary,  with 
board  and  lodging ; and  accordingly  took  up  his  abode  with  Mr. 
Griffiths,  at  the  sign  of  the  Dunciad,  Paternoster  Row.  As 
usual  we  trace  this  phase  of  his  fortunes  in  his  semi-fictitious 
writings  j his  sudden  transmutation  of  the  pedagogue  into  the 
author  being  humorously  set  forth  in  the  case  of  “ George 
Primrose  ” in  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  ‘‘Come,”  says  George’s 
adviser,  “ I see  you  are  a lad  of  spirit  and  some  learning;  what  da 
you  think  of  commencing  author  like  me?  You  have  read  in 
books,  no  doubt,  of  men  of  genius  starving  at  the  trade  : at 
present  I’ll  show  you  forty  very  dull  fellows  about  town  that  live  by 
it  in  opulence.  All  honest,  jog-trot  men,  who  go  on  smoothly  and 
dully,  and  write  history  and  politics,  and  are  praised  : men, 
sir,  who,  had  they  been  bred  cobblers,  would  all  their  lives 
only  have  mended  shoes,  but  never  made  them.”  “Finding” 
( says  George)  “ that  there  was  no  great  degree  of  gentil- 
ity affixed  to  the  character  of  an  usher,  I resolved  to  ac- 
cept his  proposal ; and,  having  the  highest  respect  for 
literature,  hailed  the  antiqua  mater  of  Grub  Street  with 
reverence.  I thought  it  my  glory  to  pursue  a track  which 
Dry  den  and  Otway  trod  before  me.”  Alas,  Dry  den  struggled 
with  indigence  all  his  days  ; and  Otway,  it  is  said,  fell  a 
victim  to  famine  in  his  thirty-fifth  year,  being  strangled  by  a 
roll  of  bread,  which  he  devoured  with  the  voracity  of  a starving 
man. 

In  Goldsmith’s  experience  the  track  soon  proved  a thorny 
one.  Griffiths  was  a hard  business-man,  of  shrewd,  worldly 
good  sense,  but  little  refinement  or  cultivation.  He  meddled 
or  rather  muddled  with  literature,  too,  in  a business-way, 
altering  and  modifying  occasionally  the  writings  of  his  con- 
tributors, and  in  this  he  was  aided  by  his  wife,  who,  according 


62 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


to  Smollett,  was  “an  antiquated  female  critic  and  a dabbler  in 
the  Review. Such  was  the  literary  vassalage  to  which  Gold- 
smith had  unwarily  subjected  himself.  A diurnal  drudgery 
was  imposed  on  him,  irksome  to  his  indolent  habits,  and  attended 
by  circumstances  humiliating  to  his  pride.  He  had  to  write  daily 
from  nine  o’clock  until  two,  and  often  throughout  the  day ; 
whether  in  the  vein  or  not  and  on  subjects  dictated  by  his 
task-master,  however  foreign  to  his  taste ; in  a word,  he  was 
treated  as  a mere  literary  hack.  But  this  was  not  the  worst ; 
it  was  the  critical  supervision  of  Griffiths  and  his  wife,  which 
grieved  him;  the  “illiterate,  bookselling  Griffiths,”  as  Smollett 
called  them,  “who  presumed  to  revise,  alter,  and  amend  the 
articles  contributed  to  their  Review.  Thank  Heaven,”  crowed 
Smollett,  “the  Critical  Revieiv  is  not  written  under  the  re- 
straint of  a bookseller  and  his  wife.  Its  principal  writers  are 
independent  of  each  other,  unconnected  with  booksellers,  and 
unawed  by  old  women  ! ” 

This  literary  vassalage,  however,  did  not  last  long.  The  book- 
seller became  more  and  more  exacting.  He  accused  his  hack 
writer  of  idleness  ; of  abandoning  his  writing-desk  and  literary 
workshop  at  an  early  hour  of  the  day ; and  of  assuming  a tone 
and  manner  above  his  situation.  Goldsmith,  in  return,  charged 
him  with  impertinence ; his  wife,  with  meanness  and  parsimony 
in  her  household  treatment  of  him,  and  both  of  literary  meddling 
and  marring.  The  engagement  was  broken  off  at  the  end  of  five 
months,  by  mutual  consent,  and  without  any  violent  rupture,  as 
it  will  be  found  they  afterwards  had  occasional  dealings  with  each 
other. 

Though  Goldsmith  was  now  nearly  thirty  years  of  age,  he  had 
produced  nothing  to  give  him  a decided  reputation.  He  was  as 
yet  a mere  writer  for  bread.  The  articles  he  had  contributed  to 
the  Review  were  anonymous,  and  were  never  avowed  by  him. 
They  have  since  been,  for  the  most  part,  ascertained;  and  though 
thrown  off  hastily,  often  treating  on  subjects  of  temporary  inter- 
est, and  marred  by  the  Griffith  interpolations,  they  are  still  char- 


NEWBERY,  OF  PICTURE-BOOK  MEMORY,  G3 


acterized  by  his  sound,  easy  good  sense,  and  the  genial  graces  of 
his  style.  Johnson  observed  that  Goldsmith’s  genius  dowered 
late;  he  should  have  said  it  dowered  early,  but  was  late  in  bring- 
ing its  fruit  to  maturity. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Being  now  known  in  the  publishing  world.  Goldsmith  began  to 
dnd  casual  employment  in  various  quarters ; among  others  he 
wrote  occasionally  for  the  Literary  Magazine^  a production  set  on 
foot  by  Mr.  John  Newbery,  bookseller,  St.  Paul’s  Churchyard,  re- 
nowned in  nursery  literature  throughout  the  latter  half  of  the  last 
century  for  his  picture-books  for  children.  Newbery  was  a 
worthy,  intelligent,  kind-hearted  man,  and  a seasonable,  though 
cautious  friend  to  authors,  relieving  them  with  small  loans  when 
in  pecuniary  difficulties,  though  always  taking  care  to  be  well  re- 
paid by  the  labor  of  their  pens.  Goldsmith  introduces  him  in  a 
humorous  yet  friendly  manner  in  his  novel  of  the  Vicar  of  Wahe- 
field.  “This  person  was  no  other  than  the  philanthropic  book- 
seller in  St.  Paul’s  Churchyard,  who  has  written  so  many  little 
books  for  children ; he  called  himself  their  friend ; but  he  was  the 
friend  of  all  mankind.  He  was  no  sooner  alighted  but  he  was  in 
haste  to  be  gone ; for  he  was  ever  on  business  of  importance,  and 
was  at  that  time  actually  compiling  materials  for  the  history  of 
one  Mr.  Thomas  Trip.  I immediately  recollected  this  good- 
natured  man’s  red-pimpled  face.” 

Besides  his  literary  job-work.  Goldsmith  also  resumed  his  medi- 
cal practice,  but  with  very  trifling  success.  The  scantiness  of  his 
purse  still  obliged  him  to  live  in  obscure  lodgings  somewhere  in 
the  vicinity  of  Salisbury  Square,  Fleet  Street ; but  his  extended 
acquaintance  and  rising  importance  caused  him  to  consult  appear- 
ances. He  adopted  an  expedient,  then  very  common,  and  still 
practised  in  London  among  those  who  have  to  tread  the  narrow 
path  between  pride  and  poverty : while  he  burrowed  in  lodgings 


64 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


suited  to  his  means,  he  “ hailed,’’  as  it  is  termed,  from  the  Temple 
Exchange  Coffee-House  near  Temple  Bar.  Here  he  received  his 
medical  calls ; hence  he  dated  his  letters ; and  here  he  passed 
much  of  his  leisure  hours,  conversing  with  the  frequenters  of  the 
place.  “ Thirty  pounds  a year,”  said  a poor  Irish  painter,  who 
understood  the  art  of  shifting,  “ is  enough  to  enable  a man  to  live 
in  London  without  being  contemptible.  Ten  pounds  will  find  him 
in  clothes  and  linen  ; he  can  live  in  a garret  on  eighteen  pence  a 
week ; hail  from  a coffee-house,  where,  by  occasionally  spending 
threepence,  he  may  pass  some  hours  each  day  in  good  company ; 
he  may  breakfast  on  bread  and  milk  for  a penny ; dine  for  sixpence ; 
do  without  supper ; and  on  clean-shirt-day  he  may  go  abroad  and 
pay  visits.” 

Goldsmith  seems  to  have  taken  a leaf  from  this  poor  devil’s 
manual  in  respect  to  the  coffee-house  at  least.  Indeed,  coffee- 
houses in  those  days  were  the  resorts  of  wits  and  literati ; where 
the  topics  of  the  day  were  gossiped  over,  and  the  affairs  of  litera- 
ture and  the  drama  discussed  and  criticised.  In  this  way  he 
enlarged  the  circle  of  his  intimacy,  which  now  embraced  several 
names  of  notoriety. 

Do  we  want  a picture  of  Goldsmith’s  experience  in  this  part  of 
his  career  ? we  have  it  in  his  observations  on  the  life  of  an  author 
in  the  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning^  published  some 
years  afterwards. 

“The  author,  unpatronized  by  the  great,  has  naturally  recourse  to 
the  bookseller.  There  cannot,  perhaps,  be  imagined  a combination 
more  prejudicial  to  taste  than  this.  It  is  the  interest  of  the  one  to 
allow  as  little  for  writing,  and  for  the  other  to  write  as  much  as  pos- 
sible ; accordingly,  tedious  compilations  and  periodical  magazines  are 
the  result  of  their  joint  endeavors.  In  these  circumstances  the  author 
bids  adieu  to  fame  ; writes  for  bread  ; and  for  that  only  imagination 
is  seldom  called  in.  He  sits  down  to  address  the  venal  Muse  with  the 
most  phlegmatic  apathy  ; and,  as  we  are  told  of  the  Russian,  courts 
his  mistress  by  falling  asleep  in  her  lap.” 

Again.  “ Tliose  who  are  unacquainted  with  the  world  are  apt  to 
fancy  the  man  of  wit  as  leading  a very  agreeable  life.  They  con- 


MISERIES  OF  AUrilORSIlIP. 


65 


elude,  perhaps,  that  he  is  attended  with  silent  admiration,  and 
dictates  to  the  rest  of  mankind  with  all  the  eloquence  of  conscious 
superiority.  Very  different  is  his  present  situation.  He  is  called  an 
author,  and  all  know  that  an  author  is  a thing  only  to  be  laughed  at. 
His  person,  not  his  jest,  becomes  the  mirth  of  the  company.  At  his 
approach  the  most  fat,  unthinking  face  brightens  into  malicious  mean- 
ing. Even  aldermen  laugh,  and  avenge  on  him  the  ridicule  which 
was  lavished  on  their  forefathers.  . . . The  poet’s  poverty  is  a 
standing  topic  of  contempt.  His  writing  for  bread  is  an  unpardonable 
offence.  Perhaps  of  all  mankind,  an  author  in  these  times  is  used 
most  hardly.  We  keep  him  poor,  and  yet  revile  his  poverty.  We 
reproach  him  for  living  by  his  wit,  and  yet  allow  him  no  other  means 
to  live.  His  taking  refuge  in  garrets  and  cellars  has  of  late  been 
violently  objected  to  him,  and  that  by  men  who,  I have  hope,  are 
more  apt  to  pity  than  insult  his  distress.  Is  poverty  a careless  fault  ? 
No  doubt  he  knows  how  to  prefer  a bottle  of  champagne  to  the  nectar 
of  the  neighboring  ale-house,  or  a venison  pasty  to  a plate  of  potatoes. 
Want  of  delicacy  is  not  in  him,  but  in  those  who  deny  him  the 
opportunity  of  making  an  elegant  choice.  Wit  certainly  is  the 
property  of  those  who  have  it,  nor  should  we  be  displeased  if  it  is 
the  only  property  a man  sometimes  has.  We  must  not  underrate  him 
who  uses  it  for  subsistence,  and  flees  from  the  ingratitude  of  the  age, 
even  to  a bookseller  for  redress.”  . , . 

‘‘  If  the  author  be  necessary  among  us,  let  us  treat  him  with  proper 
consideration  as  a child  of  the  public,  not  as  a rent-charge  on  the 
community.  And  indeed  a child  of  the  public  he  is  in  all  respects  ; 
for  while  so  well  able  to  direct  others,  how  incapable  is  he  frequently 
found  of  guiding  himself.  His  simplicity  exposes  him  to  all  the 
insidious  approaches  of  cunning : his  sensibility,  to  the  slightest  in- 
vasions of  contempt.  Though  possessed  of  fortitude  to  stand 
unmoved  the  expected  bursts  of  an  earthquake,  yet  of  feelings  so 
exquisitely  poignant,  as  to  agonize  under  the  slightest  disappointment. 
Broken  rest,  tasteless  meals,  and  causeless  anxieties  shorten  life  and 
render  it  unfit  for  active  employments  ; prolonged  vigils  and  intense 
applications  still  farther  contract  his  span,  and  make  his  time  glide 
insensibly  away.” 

While  poor  Goldsmith  was  thus  struggling  with  the  difficulties 
and  discouragements  which  in  those  days  beset  the  path  of  an 
author,  his  friends  in  Ireland  received  accounts  of  his  literary 
success  and  of  the  distinguished  acquaintances  he  was  making. 


66 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


This  was  enough  to  put  the  wise  heads  at  Lissoy  and  Ballymahon 
in  a ferment  of  conjectures.  With  the  exaggerated  notions  of  pro- 
vincial relatives  concerning  the  family  great  man  in  the  metropolis, 
some  of  Goldsmith’s  poor  kindred  pictured  him  to  themselves 
seated  in  high  places,  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  hand 
and  glove  with  the  givers  of  gifts  and  dispensers  of  patronage. 
Accordingly,  he  was  one  day  surprised  at  the  sudden  apparition, 
in  his  miserable  lodging,  of  his  younger  brother  Charles,  a raw 
youth  of  twenty-one,  endowed  with  a double  share  of  the  family 
heedlessness,  and  who  expected  to  be  forthwith  helped  into  some 
snug  by-path  to  fortune  by  one  or  other  of  Oliver’s  great  friends. 
Charles  was  sadly  disconcerted  on  learning  that,  so  far  from  being 
able  to  provide  for  others,  his  brother  could  scarcely  take  care  of 
himself.  He  looked  round  with  a rueful  eye  on  the  poet’s  quar- 
ters, and  could  not  help  expressing  his  surprise  and  disappoint- 
ment at  finding  him  no  better  off.  “ All  in  good  time,  my  dear 
boy,”  replied  poor  Goldsmith,  with  infinite  good-humor ; ‘‘  I shall 
be  richer  by- and- by.  Addison,  let  me  tell  you,  wrote  his  poem  of 
the  ‘ Campaign  ’ in  a garret  in  the  Haymarket,  three  stories  high, 
and  you  see  I am  not  come  to  that  yet,  for  I have  only  got  to  the 
second  story.” 

Charles  Goldsmith  did  not  remain  long  to  embarrass  his  brother 
in  London.  With  the  same  roving  disposition  and  inconsiderate 
temper  of  Oliver,  he  suddenly  departed  in  an  humble  capacity  to 
seek  his  fortune  in  the  West  Indies,  and  nothing  was  heard  of  him 
for  above  thirty  years,  when,  after  having  been  given  up  as  dead 
by  his  friends,  he  made  his  reappearance  in  England. 

Shortly  after  his  departure.  Goldsmith  wrote  a letter  to  his 
brother-in-law,  Daniel  Hodson,  Esq.,  of  which  the  following  is  an 
extract ; it  was  partly  intended,  no  doubt,  to  dissipate  any  further 
illusions  concerning  his  fortunes  which  might  float  on  the  magnifi- 
cent imagination  of  his  friends  in  Ballymahon. 

“ I suppose  you  desire  to  know  my  present  situation.  As  there  is 
nothing  in  it  at  which  I should  blush  or  which  mankind  could  censure, 
I see  no  reason  for  making  it  a secret.  In  short,  by  a very  little 


LETTER  TO  IIODSON, 


67 


practice  as  a physician^  and  a very  little  reputatioii  as  a poet,  I make 
a shift  to  live.  Nothing  is  more  apt  to  introduce  us  to  the  gates  of  the 
Muses  than  poverty  ; but  it  were  well  if  they  only  left  us  at  the  door. 
The  mischief  is,  they  sometimes  choose  to  give  us  their  company  to 
the  entertainment ; and  want,  instead  of  being  gentleman-usher,  often 
turns  master  of  the  ceremonies. 

‘‘  Thus,  upon  learning  I write,  no  doubt  you  imagine  I starve  ; and 
the  name  of  an  author  naturally  reminds  you  of  a garret.  In  this  par- 
ticular I do  not  think  proper  to  undeceive  my  friends.  But,  whether 
I eat  or  starve,  live  in  a first  floor  or  four  pairs  of  stairs  high,  I still 
remember  them  with  ardor;  nay,  my  very  country  comes  in  for  a 
share  of  my  affection.  Unaccountable  fondness  for  country,  this 
malacUe  du  pais,  as  the  French  call  it  ! Unaccountable  that  he  should 
still  have  an  affection  for  a place,  who  never,  when  in  it,  received 
above  common  civility  ; who  never  brought  anything  out  of  it  except 
his  brogue  and  his  blunders.  Surely  my  affection  is  equally  ridiculous 
with  the  Scotchman’s,  who  refused  to  be  cured  of  the  itch  because  it 
made  him  unco’  thoughtful  of  his  wife  and  bonny  Inverary. 

“ But,  now,  to  be  serious  : let  me  ask  myself  what  gives  me  a wish 
to  see  Ireland  again.  The  country  is  a fine  one,  perhaps  ? No. 
There  are  good  company  in  Ireland  ? No.  The  conversation  there  is 
generally  made  up  of  a smutty  toast  or  a bawdy  song ; the  vivacity 
supported  by  some  humble  cousin,  who  had  just  folly  enough  to  earn 
his  dinner.  Then,  perhaps,  there’s  more  wit  and  learning  among  the 
Irish  ? Oh,  Lord,  no  ! There  has  been  more  money  spent  in  the  en- 
couragement of  the  Padareen  mare  there  one  season,  than  given  in 
rewards  to  learned  men  since  the  time  of  Usher.  All  their  productions 
in  learning  amount  to  perhaps  a translation,  or  a few  tracts  in  divin- 
ity ; and  all  their  productions  in  wit  to  just  nothing  at  all.  Why  the 
plague,  then,  so  fond  of  Ireland  ? Then,  all  at  once,  because  you, 
my  dear  friend,  and  a few  more  who  are  exceptions  to  the  general  pic- 
ture, have  a residence  there.  This  it  is  that  gives  me  all  the  pangs  I 
feel  in  separation.  I confess  I carry  this  spirit  sometimes  to  the  sour- 
ing the  pleasures  I at  present  possess.  If  I go  to  the  opera,  where  Sig- 
nora Columba  pours  out  all  the  mazes  of  melody,  I sit  and  sigh  for 
Lissoy  fireside,  and  Johnny  Armstrong’s  ‘ Last  Good-night  ’ from 
Peggy  Golden.  If  I climb  Hampstead  Hill,  than  where  nature  never 
exhibited  a more  magnificent  prospect,  I confess  it  fine  ; but  then  I 
had  rather  be  placed  on  the  little  mount  before  Lissoy  gate,  and  there 
take  in,  to  me,  the  most  pleasing  horizon  in  nature. 

“ Before  Charles  came  hither,  my  thoughts  sometimes  found  refuge 


68 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


from  severer  studies  among  my  friends  in  Ireland.  I fancied  strange 
revolutions  at  home  ; but  I find  it  was  the  rapidity  of  my  own  motion  that 
gave  an  imaginary  one  to  objects  really  at  rest.  No  alterations  there. 
Some  friends,  he  tells  me,  are  still  lean,  but  very  rich  ; others  very 
fat,  but  still  very  poor.  Nay,  all  the  news  I hear  of  you  is,  that  you 
sally  out  in  visits  among  the  neighbors,  and  sometimes  make  a migra- 
tion from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown.  I could  from  my  heart  wish 
that  you  and  she  (Mrs.  Hodson),  and  Lissoy  and  Ballymahon,  and  all 
of  you,  would  fairly  make  a migration  into  Middlesex ; though,  upon 
second  thoughts,  this  might  be  attended  with  a few  inconveniences. 
Therefore,  as  the  mountain  will  not  come  to  Mohammed,  why  Mo- 
hammed shall  go  to  the  mountain  ; or,  to  speak  plain  English,  as  you 
cannot  conveniently  pay  me  a visit,  if  next  summer  I can  contrive  to 
be  absent  six  weeks  from  London,  I shall  spend  three  of  them  among 
my  friends  in  Ireland.  But  first,  believe  me,  my  design  is  purely  to 
visit,  and  neither  to  cut  a figure  nor  levy  contributions  ; neither  to  ex- 
cite envy  nor  solicit  favor ; in  fact,  my  circumstances  are  adapted  to 
neither.  I am  too  poor  to  be  gazed  at,  and  too  rich  to  need  assistance.” 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Foe  some  time  Goldsmith  continued  to  write  miscellaneously  for 
reviews  and  other  periodical  publications,  but  without  making  any 
decided  hit,  to  use  a technical  term.  Indeed  as  yet  he  appeared 
destitute  of  the  strong  excitement  of  literary  ambition,  and  wrote 
only  on  the  spur  of  necessity  and  at  the  urgent  importunity  of  his 
bookseller.  His  indolent  and  truant  disposition,  ever  averse  from 
labor  and  delighting  in  holiday,  had  to  be  scourged  up  to  its 
task ; still  it  was  this  very  truant  disposition  which  threw  an 
unconscious  charm  over  everything  he  wrote ; bringing  with  it 
honeyed  thoughts  and  pictured  images  which  had  sprung  up  in 
his  mind  in  the  sunny  hours  of  idleness  : these  effusions,  dashed 
off  on  compulsion  in  the  exigency  of  the  moment,  were  published 
anonymously ; so  that  they  made  no  collective  impression  on  the 
public,  and  reflected  no  fame  on  the  name  of  their  author. 

In  an  essay  published  some  time  subsequently  in  the  Bee^ 
Goldsmith  adverts  in  his  own  humorous  way  to  his  impatience  at 


ORIENTAL  PROJECTS, 


69 


the  tardiness  with  which  his  desultory  and  unacknowledged  essays 
crept  into  notice.  “I  was  once  induced,”  says  he,  “to  show  my 
indignation  against  the  public  by  discontinuing  my  efforts  to 
please  ; and  was  bravely  resolved,  like  Raleigh,  to  vex  them  by 
burning  my  manuscripts  in  a passion.  Upon  reflection,  however, 
I considered  what  set  or  body  of  people  would  be  displeased  at  my 
rashness.  The  sun,  after  so  sad  an  accident,  might  shine  next 
morning  as  bright  as  usual ; men  might  laugh  and  sing  the  next 
day,  and  transact  business  as  before ; and  not  a single  creature 
feel  any  regret  but  myself.  Instead  of  having  Apollo  in  mourn- 
ing or  the  Muses  in  a fit  of  the  spleen  ; instead  of  having  the 
learned  world  apostrophizing  at  my  untimely  decease ; perhaps  all 
Grub  Street  might  laugh  at  my  fate,  and  self-approving  dignity 
be  unable  to  shield  me  from  ridicule.” 

Circumstances  occurred  about  this  time  to  give  a new  direction 
to  Goldsmith’s  hopes  and  schemes.  Having  resumed  for  a brief 
period  the  superintendence  of  the  Peckham  school,  during  a fit  of 
illness  of  Dr.  Milner,  that  gentleman,  in  requital  for  his  timely 
services,  promised  to  use  his  influence  with  a friend,  an  East- 
In  dia  director,  to  procure  him  a medical  appointment  in  India. 

There  was  every  reason  to  believe  that  the  influence  of  Dr. 
Mdner  w^ould  be  effectual ; but  how  was  Goldsmith  to  find  the 
ways  and  means  of  fitting  himself  out  for  a voyage  to  the  Indies  ? 
In  this  emergency  he  was  driven  to  a more  extended  exercise  of 
the  pen  than  he  had  yet  attempted.  His  skirmishing  among 
books  as  a reviewer,  and  his  disputatious  ramble  among  the 
schools  and  universities  and  literati  of  the  Continent,  had  filled 
his  mind  with  facts  and  observations  which  he  now^  set  about  di- 
gesting into  a treatise  of  some  magnitude,  to  be  entitled  An  In- 
quiry into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Europe,  As 
the  work  grew  on  his  hands,  his  sanguine  temper  ran  ahead  of 
his  labors.  Feeling  secure  of  success  in  England,  he  was  anxious 
to  forestall  the  piracy  of  the  Irish  press ; for  as  yet,  the  union  not 
having  taken  place,  the  English  law  of  copyright  did  not  extend 
to  the  other  side  of  the  Irish  channel.  He  wrote,  therefore,  to 


70 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


his  friends  in  Ireland,  urging  them  to  circulate  his  proposals  for 
his  contemplated  work,  and  obtain  subscriptions  payable  in  ad- 
vance ; the  money  to  be  transmitted  to  a Mr.  Bradley,  an  eminent 
bookseller  in  Dublin,  who  would  give  a receipt  for  it  and  be  ac- 
countable for  the  delivery  of  the  books.  The  letters  written  by 
him  on  this  occasion  are  worthy  of  copious  citation  as  being  full 
of  character  and  interest.  One  was  to  his  relative  and  college 
intimate,  Edward  Wells,  who  had  studied  for  the  bar,  but  was 
now  living  at  ease  on  his  estate  at  Roscommon.  ‘‘You  have 
quitted,’’  writes  Groldsmith,  “ the  plan  of  life  which  you  once  in- 
tended to  pursue,  and  given  up  ambition  for  domestic  tranquillity. 
I cannot  avoid  feeling  some  regret  that  one  of  my  few  friends  has 
declined  a pursuit  in  which  he  had  every  reason  to  expect  success. 
I have  often  let  my  fancy  loose  when  you  were  the  subject,  and 
have  imagined  you  gracing  the  bench,  or  thundering  at  the  bar : 
while  I have  taken  no  small  pride  to  myself,  and  whispered  to  all 
that  I could  come  near,  that  this  was  my  cousin.  Instead  of  this, 
it  seems,  you  are  merely  contented  to  be  a happy  man;  to  be 
esteemed  by  your  acquaintances ; to  cultivate  your  paternal  acres ; 
to  take  unmolested  a nap  under  one  of  your  own  hawthorns,  or 
in  Mrs.  Wells’s  bedchamber,  which,  even  a poet  must  confess,  is 
rather  the  more  comfortable  place  of  the  two.  But,  however  your 
resolutions  may  be  altered  with  regard  to  your  situation  in  life,  I 
persuade  myself  they  are  unalterable  with  respect  to  your  friends 
in  it.  I cannot  think  the  world  has  taken  such  entire  possession 
of  that  heart  (once  so  susceptible  of  friendship)  as  not  to  have  left 
a corner  there  for  a friend  or  two,  but  I flatter  myself  that  even  I 
have  a place  among  the  number.  This  I have  a claim  to  from  the 
similitude  of  our  dispositions  ; or  setting  that  aside,  I can  demand 
it  as  a right  by  the  most  equitable  law  of  nature  : I mean  that  of 
retaliation ; for  indeed  you  have  more  than  your  share  in  mine. 
I am  a man  of  few  professions ; and  yet  at  this  very  instant  I can- 
not avoid  the  painful  apprehension  that  my  present  professions 
(which  speak  not  half  my  feelings)  should  be  considered  only  as  a 
pretext  to  cover  a request,  as  I have  a request  to  make.  No,  my 


LETTER  TO  ROBERT  BRYANTON. 


71 


dear  Ned,  I know  you  are  too  generous  to  think  so,  and  you  know 
me  too  proud  to  stoop  to  unnecessary  insincerity ; — I have  a re- 
quest, it  is  true,  to  make ; but  as  I know  to  whom  I am  a petitioner, 
I make  it  without  diffidence  or  confusion.  It  is  in  short  this  : I am 
going  to  publish  a book  in  London,”  &c.  The  residue  of  the 
letter  specifies  the  nature  of  the  request,  which  was  merely  to  aid 
in  circulating  his  proposals  and  obtaining  subscriptions.  The 
letter  of  the  poor  author,  however,  was  unattended  to  and  unac- 
knowledged by  the  prosperous  Mr.  Wells,  of  Roscommon,  though 
in  after-years  he  was  proud  to  claim  relationship  to  Dr.  Gold- 
smith, when  he  had  risen  to  celebrity. 

Another  of  Goldsmith’s  letters  was  to  Robert  Bryanton,  with 
whom  he  had  long  ceased  to  be  in  correspondence.  “I  believe,” 
writes  he,  “ that  they  who  are  drunk,  or  out  of  their  wits,  fancy 
everybody  else  in  the  same  condition.  Mine  is  a friendship  that 
neither  distance  nor  time  can  efface,  which  is  probably  the  reason 
that,  for  the  soul  of  me,  I can’t  avoid  thinking  yours  of  the  same 
complexion ; and  yet  I have  many  reasons  for  being  of  a contrary 
opinion,  else  why,  in  so  long  an  absence,  was  I never  made  a part- 
ner in  your  concerns  ? To  hear  of  your  success  would  have  given 
me  the  utmost  pleasure ; and  a communication  of  your  very  disap- 
pointments would  divide  the  uneasiness  I too  frequently  feel  for 
my  own.  Indeed,  my  dear  Bob,  you  don’t  conceive  how  unkindly 
you  have  treated  one  whose  circumstances  afford  him  few  pros- 
pects of  pleasure,  except  those  refiected  from  the  happiness  of  his 
friends.  However,  since  you  have  not  let  me  hear  from  you,  I 
have  in  some  measure  disappointed  your  neglect  by  frequently 
thinking  of  you.  Every  day  or  so  I remember  the  calm  anecdotes 
of  your  life,  from  the  fireside  to  the  easy-chair ; recall  the  various 
adventures  that  first  cemented  our  friendship ; the  school,  the  col- 
lege, or  the  tavern ; preside  in  fancy  over  your  cards  ; and  am  dis' 
pleased  at  your  bad  play  when  the  rubber  goes  against  you, 
though  not  with  all  that  agony  of  soul  as  when  I was  once  your 
partner.  Is  it  not  strange  that  two  of  such  like  affections  should 
be  so  much  separated,  and  so  differently  employed  as  we  are? 


72 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


You  seem  placed  at  the  centre  of  fortune’s  wheel,  and,  let  it  re- 
volve ever  so  fast,  are  insensible  of  the  motion.  I seem  to  have 
been  tied  to  the  circumference,  and  whirled  disagreeably  round,  as 
if  on  a whirligig.” 

He  then  runs  into  a whimsical  and  extravagant  tirade  about 
his  future  prospects,  the  wonderful  career  of  fame  and  fortune 
that  awaits  him,  and  after  indulging  in  all  kinds  of  huioorous 
gasconades,  concludes  : “ Let  me,  then,  stop  my  fancy  to  take  a 
view  of  my  future  self,  — and,  as  the  boys  say,  light  down  to  see 
myself  on  horseback.  Well,  now  that  I am  down,  where  the  d — 1 
is  I ? Oh  gods  ! gods  ! here  in  a garret,  writing  for  bread,  and 
expecting  to  be  dunned  for  a milk  score  ! ” 

He  would,  on  this  occasion,  have  doubtless  written  to  his 
uncle  Contarine,  but  that  generous  friend  was  sunk  into  a helpless 
hopeless  state  from  which  death  soon  released  him. 

Cut  off  thus  from  the  kind  cooperation  of  his  uncle,  he  ad- 
dresses a letter  to  his  daughter  Jane,  the  companion  of  his  school- 
boy and  happy  days,  now  the  wife  of  Mr.  Lawder.  The  object  was 
to  secure  her  interest  with  her  husband  in  promoting  the  circula- 
tion of  his  proposals.  The  letter  is  full  of  character. 

“ If  you  should  ask,”  he  begins,  “ why,  in  an  interval  of  so  many 
years,  you  never  heard  from  me,  permit  me,  madam,  to  ask  the  same 
question.  I have  the  best  excuse  in  recrimination.  I wrote  to  Kil- 
more  from  Leyden  in  Holland,  from  Louvain  in  Flanders,  and  Rouen 
in  France,  but  received  no  answer.  To  what  could  I attribute  this 
silence  but  to  displeasure  or  forgetfulness  ? Whether  I was  right  in 
my  conjecture  I do  not  pretend  to  determine  ; but  this  I must  ingen- 
uously own,  that  I have  a thousand  times  in  my  turn  endeavored  to 
forget  them^  whom  I could  not  but  look  upon  as  forgetting  me.  I have 
attempted  to  blot  their  names  from  my  memory,  and,  I confess  it, 
spent  whole  days  in  efforts  to  tear  their  image  from  my  heart.  Could 
I have  succeeded,  you  had  not  now  been  troubled  with  this  renewal 
of  a discontinued  correspondence ; but,  as  every  effort  the  rest- 
less make  to  procure  sleep  serves  but  to  keep  them  waking,  all  my 
attempts  contributed  to  impress  what  I would  forget  deeper  on  my 
imagination.  But  this  subject  I would  willingly  turn  from,  and  yet, 
‘for  the  soul  of  me,’  I can’t  till  1 have  said  all.  I was,  madam,  when 


LETTER  TO  COUSIN  JANE. 


73 


I discontinued  writing  to  Kilmore,  in  such  circumstances,  that  all  my 
endeavors  to  continue  your  regards  might  be  attributed  to  wrong  mo- 
tives. My  letters  might  be  looked  upon  as  the  petitions  of  a beggar, 
and  not  the  offerings  of  a friend  ; while  all  my  professions,  instead  of 
being  considered  of  the  result  of  disinterested  esteem,  might  be  as- 
cribed to  venal  insincerity.  I believe,  indeed,  you  had  too  much 
generosity  to  place  them  in  such  a light,  but  I could  not  bear  even  the 
shadow  of  such  a suspicion.  The  most  delicate  friendships  are  always 
most  sensible  of  the  slightest  invasion,  and  the  strongest  jealousy  is 
ever  attendant  on  the  warmest  regard.  I could  not  — I own  I could 
not — continue  a correspondence  in  which  every  acknowledgment  for 
past  favors  might  be  considered  as  an  indirect  request  for  future  ones  ; 
and  where  it  miglit  be  thought  I gave  my  heart  from  a motive  of 
gratitude  alone,  when  I was  conscious  of  having  bestowed  it  on  much 
more  disinterested  principles.  It  is  true,  this  conduct  might  have  been 
simple  enough  ; but  yourself  must  confess  it  was  in  character.  Those 
who  know  me  at  all,  know  that  I have  always  been  actuated  by  dif- 
ferent principles  from  the  rest  of  mankind  ; and  while  none  regarded 
the  interest  of  his  friend  more,  no  man  on  earth  regarded  his  own  less. 
I have  often  affected  bluntness  to  avoid  the  imputation  of  flattery  ; 
have  frequently  seemed  to  overlook  those  merits  too  obvious  to  escape 
notice,  and  pretended  disregard  to  those  instances  of  good  nature  and 
good  sense,  which  I could  not  fail  tacitly  to  applaud  ; and  all  this  lest 
I should  be  ranked  among  the  grinning  tribe,  who  say  ‘ very  true  ’ to 
all  that  is  said  ; v/ho  All  a vacant  chair  at  a tea-table  ; whose  narrow 
souls  never  moved  in  a wider  circle  than  the  circumference  of  a guinea  ; 
and  who  had  rather  be  reckoning  the  money  in  your  pocket  than  the 
virtue  in  your  breast.  All  this,  I say,  I have  done,  and  a thousand 
other  very  silly,  though  very  disinterested,  things  in  my  time  ; and 
for  all  which  no  soul  cares  a farthing  about  me.  ...  Is  it  to  be 
wondered  that  he  should  once  in  his  life  forget  you,  who  has  been  all 
his  life  forgetting  himself  ? However,  it  is  probable  you  may  one  of 
these  days  see  me  turned  into  a perfect  hunks,  and  as  dark  and  intri- 
cate as  a mouse-hole.  I have  already  given  my  landlady  orders  for 
an  entire  reform  in  the  state  of  my  flnances.  I declaim  against  hot 
suppers,  drink  less  sugar  in  my  tea,  and  check  my  grate  with  brick- 
bats. Instead  of  hanging  my  room  with  pictures,  I intend  to  adorn 
it  with  maxims  of  frugality.  Those  will  make  pretty  furniture  enough, 
and  won’t  be  a bit  too  expensive  ; for  I will  draw  them  all  out  with 
my  own  hands,  and  my  landlady’s  daughter  shall  frame  them  with 
the  parings  of  my  black  waistcoat.  Each  maxim  is  to  be  inscribed 


74 


OLIVEB,  GOLDSMITH, 


on  a sheet  of  clean  paper,  and  wrote  with  my  best  pen  ; of  which  the 
following  will  serve  as  a specimen.  Look  sharp  : Mind  the  main 
chance  : Money  is  money  now  : If  you  have  a thousand  pounds  you 
can  put  your  hands  by  your  sides,  and  say  you  are  loorth  a thousand 
pounds  every  day  of  the  year  : Take  a farthing  from  a hu7idred  a7id  it 
will  be  a hundred  no  longer.  Thus,  which  way  soever  I turn  my  eyes, 
they  are  sure  to  meet  one  of  those  friendly  monitors ; and  as  we  are 
told  of  an  actor  who  hung  his  room  round  with  looking-glass  to  correct 
the  defects  of  his  person,  my  apartment  shall  be  furnished  in  a pecul- 
iar manner,  to  correct  the  errors  of  my  mind.  Faith  ! madam,  I 
heartily  wish  to  be  rich,  if  it  were  only  for  this  reason,  to  say  without 
a blush  how  much  I esteem  you.  But,  alas  ! I have  many  a fatigue 
to  encounter  before  that  happy  time  comes,  when  your  poor  old  sim- 
ple friend  may  again  give  a loose  to  the  luxuriance  of  his  nature  ; sit- 
ting by  Kilmore  fireside,  recount  the  various  adventures  of  a hard- 
fought  life  ; laugh  over  the  follies  of  the  day  ; join  his  flute  to  your 
harpsichord  ; and  forget  that  ever  he  starved  in  those  streets  where 
Butler  and  Otway  starved  before  him.  And  now  I mention  those 
great  names — my  Uncle  ! he  is  no  more  that  soul  of  fire  as  when  I once 
knew  him.  Newton  and  Swift  grew  dim  with  age  as  well  as  he.  But 
what  shall  I say  ? His  mind  was  too  active  an  inhabitant  not  to  dis- 
order the  feeble  mansion  of  its  abode  ; for  the  richest  jewels  soonest 
wear  their  settings.  Yet,  who  but  the  fool  would  lament  his  condi- 
tion ! He  now  forgets  the  calamities  of  life.  Perhaps  indulgent 
Heaven  has  given  him  a foretaste  of  that  tranquillity  here,  which  he  so 
well  deserves  hereafter.  But  I must  come  to  business  ; for  business, 
as  one  of  my  maxims  tells  me,  must  be  minded  or  lost.  I am  agoing 
to  publish  in  London  a book  entitled  The  Present  State  of  Taste 
and  Literature  m Europe.  The  booksellers  in  Ireland  republish  every 
performance  there  without  making  the  author  any  consideration.  I 
would,  in  this  respect,  disappoint  their  avarice,  and  have  all  the  profits 
of  my  labor  to  myself.  I must,  therefore,  request  Mr.  Lawder  to  cir- 
culate among  his  friends  and  acquaintances  a hundred  of  my  proposals, 
which  I have  given  the  bookseller,  Mr.  Bradley  in  Dame  Street,  direc- 
tions to  send  to  him.  If,  in  pursuance  of  such  circulation,  he  should 
receive  any  subscriptions,  I entreat,  when  collected,  they  may  be  sent 
to  Mr.  Bradley,  as  aforesaid,  who  will  give  a receipt,  and  be  account- 
able for  the  work,  or  a return  of  the  subscription.  If  this  request 
(which,  if  it  be  complied  with,  will  in  some  measure  be  an  encourage- 
ment to  a man  of  learning)  should  be  disagreeable  or  troublesome,  I 
would  not  press  it ; for  I would  be  the  last  man  on  earth  to  have  my 


ORIENTAL  APPOINTMENT, 


75 


labors  go  a-begging  ; but  if  I know  Mr.  Lawder  (and  sure  I ought  to 
know  him),  he  will  accept  the  employment  with  pleasure.  All  I can 
say  — if  he  writes  a book,  I will  get  him  two  hundred  subscribers,  and 
those  of  the  best  wits  in  Europe.  Whether  this  request  is  complied 
with  or  not,  I shall  not  be  uneasy  ; but  there  is  one  petition  I must 
make  to  him  and  to  you,  which  I solicit  with  the  warmest  ardor,  and 
in  which  I cannot  bear  a refusal.  I mean,  dear  madam,  that  I may  be 
allowed  to  subscribe  myself,  your  ever  affectionate  and  obliged  kins- 
man, Oliver  Goldsmith.  Now  see  how  I blot  and  blunder,  when  I 
am  asking  a favor.” 


CHAPTER  X. 

While  Goldsmith  was  yet  laboring  at  his  treatise,  the  promise 
made  him  by  Dr.  Milner  was  carried  into  effect,  and  he  was  actu- 
ally appointed  physician  and  surgeon  to  one  of  the  factories  on  the 
coast  of  Coromandel.  His  imagination  was  immediately  on  fire 
with  visions  of  Oriental  wealth  and  magnificence.  It  is  true  the 
salary  did  not  exceed  one  hundred  pounds,  but  then,  as  appointed 
physician,  he  would  have  the  exclusive  practice  of  the  place, 
amounting  to  one  thousand  pounds  per  annum ; with  advantages 
to  be  derived  from  trade  and  from  the  high  interest  of  money  — 
twenty  per  cent. ; in  a word,  for  once  in  his  life,  the  road  to  for- 
tune lay  broad  and  straight  before  him. 

Hitherto,  in  his  correspondence  with  his  friends,  he  had  said 
nothing  of  his  India  scheme ; but  now  he  imparted  to  them  his 
brilliant  prospects,  urging  the  importance  of  their  circulating  his 
proposals  and  obtaining  him  subscriptions  and  advances  on  his  forth' 
coming  work,  to  furnish  funds  for  his  outfit. 

In  the  meantime  he  had  to  task  that  poor  drudge,  his  Muse,  for 
present  exigencies.  Ten  pounds  were  demanded  for  his  appoint- 
ment-warrant. Other  expenses  pressed  hard  upon  him.  Fortu- 
nately, though  as  yet  unknown  to  fame,  his  literary  capability  was 
known  to  ‘‘the  trade,”  and  the  coinage  of  his  brain  passed  current 
in  Grub  Street.  Archibald  Hamilton,  proprietor  of  the  Critical 
Review,  the  rival  to  that  of  Griffiths,  readily  made  him  a small 


76 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


advance  on  receiving  three  articles  for  his  periodical.  His  purse 
thus  slenderly  replenished,  Goldsmith  paid  for  his  warrant ; wiped 
off  the  score  of  his  milkmaid ; abandoned  his  garret,  and  moved 
into  a shabby  first  floor  in  a forlorn  court  near  the  Old  Bailey; 
there  to  await  the  time  of  his  migration  to  the  magnificent  coast  of 
Coromandel. 

Alas  ! poor  Goldsmith  ! ever  doomed  to  disappointment.  Early 
in  the  gloomy  month  of  November,  that  month  of  fog  and  despond- 
ency in  London,  he  learnt  the  shipwreck  of  his  liope.  The  great 
Coromandel  enterprise  fell  through ; or  rather  the  post  promised 
him  was  transferred  to  some  other  candidate.  The  cause  of  this 
disappointment  it  is  now  impossible  to  ascertain.  The  death  of 
his  quasi  patron,  Dr.  Milner,  which  happened  about  this  time, 
may  have  had  some  effect  in  producing  it ; or  there  may  have 
been  some  heedlessness  and  blunder  on  his  own  part ; or  some 
obstacle  arising  from  his  insuperable  indigence;  — wdiatever  may 
have  been  the  cause,  he  never  mentioned  it,  which  gives  some 
ground  to  surmise  that  he  himself  was  to  blame.  His  friends 
learnt  with  surprise  that  he  had  suddenly  relinquished  his  ap- 
pointment to  India,  about  which  he  had  raised  such  sanguine  ex- 
pectations : some  accused  him  of  fickleness  and  caprice ; others 
supposed  him  unwilling  to  tear  himself  from  the  growing  fasci- 
nations of  the  literary  society  of  London. 

In  the  meantime,  cut  down  in  his  hopes,  and  humiliated  in  his 
pride  by  the  failure  of  his  Coromandel  scheme,  he  sought,  without 
consulting  his  friends,  to  be  examined  at  the  College  of  Physi- 
cians for  the  humble  situation  of  hospital  mate.  Even  here  pov- 
erty stood  in  his  way.  It  was  necessary  to  appear  in  a decent 
garb  before  the  examining  committee ; but  how  was  he  to  do  so  ? 
He  was  literally  out  at  elbows  as  well  as  out  of  cash.  Here  again 
the  Muse,  so  often  jilted  and  neglected  by  him,  came  to  his  aid. 
In  consideration  of  four  articles  furnished  to  the  Monthly  Revieiv^ 
Griffiths,  his  old  task-master,  was  to  become  his  security  to  the 
tailor  for  a suit  of  clothes.  Goldsmith  said  he  wanted  them  but 
for  a single  occasion,  upon  which  depended  his  appointment  to  a 


SUIT  OF  CLOTHES  IN  FAWN. 


77 


situation  in  the  army ; as  soon  as  that  temporary  purpose  was 
served  they  would  either  be  returned  or  paid  for.  The  books  to 
be  reviewed  were  accordingly  lent  to  him ; the  Muse  was  again 
set  to  her  compulsory  drudgery ; the  articles  were  scribbled  off 
and  sent  to  the  bookseller,  and  the  clothes  came  in  due  time  from 
the  tailor. 

From  the  records  of  the  College  of  Surgeons,  it  appears  that 
Goldsmith  underwent  his  examination  at  Surgeons’  Hall,  on  the 
21st  of  December,  1758.  Either  from  a confusion  of  mind  inci- 
dent to  sensitive  and  imaginative  persons  on  such  occasions,  or 
from  a real  want  of  surgical  science,  which  last  is  extremely  prob- 
able, he  failed  in  his  examination,  and  was  rejected  as  unqualified. 
The  effect  of  such  a rejection  was  to  disqualify  him  for  every 
branch  of  public  service,  though  he  might  have  claimed  a reexam- 
ination, after  the  interval  of  a few  months  devoted  to  further 
study.  Such  a reexamination  he  never  attempted,  nor  did  he  ever 
communicate  his  discomfiture  to  any  of  his  friends. 

On  Christrnas-day,  but  four  days  after  his  rejection  by  the 
College  of  Surgeons,  while  he  was  suffering  under  the  mortification 
of  defeat  and  disappointment,  and  hard  pressed  for  means  of  sub- 
sistence, he  was  surprised  by  the  entrance  into  his  room  of  tlie 
poor  woman  of  whom  he  hired  his  wretched  apartment,  and  to 
whom  he  owed  some  small  arrears  of  rent.  Slie  had  a piteous  tale 
of  distress,  and  was  clamorous  in  her  afflictions.  Her  husband 
had  been  arrested  in  the  night  for  debt,  and  thrown  into  prison. 
This  was  too  much  for  the  quick  feelings  of  Goldsmith ; he  was 
ready  at  any  time  to  help  the  distressed,  but  in  this  instance  he 
was  himself  in  some  measure  a cause  of  the  distress.  What  was  to 
be  done  h He  had  no  money,  it  is  true ; but  there  hung  the  new 
suit  of  clothes  in  which  he  had  stood  his  unlucky  examination  at 
Surgeons’  Hall.  Without  giving  himself  time  for  reflection,  he 
sent  it  off  to  the  pawnbroker’s,  and  raised  thereon  a sufficient  sum 
to  pay  off*  his  own  debt,  and  to  release  his  landlord  from  prison. 

Under  the  same  pressure  of  penury  and  despondency,  he  bor- 
rowed from  a neighbor  a pittance  to  relieve  his  immediate  w^ants, 


78 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


leaving  as  a security  the  books  which  he  had  recently  reviewed. 
In  the  midst  of  these  straits  and  harassments,  he  received  a letter 
from  Griffiths,  demanding,  in  peremptory  terms,  the  return  of  the 
clothes  and  books,  or  immediate  payment  for  the  same.  It  ap- 
pears that  he  had  discovered  the  identical  suit  at  the  pawn- 
broker’s. The  reply  of  Goldsmith  is  not  known ; it  was  out  of 
his  power  to  furnish  either  the  clothes  or  the  money ; but  he 
probably  offered  once  more  to  make  the  Muse  stand  his  bail.  His 
reply  only  increased  the  ire  of  the  wealthy  man  of  trade,  and  drew 
from  him  another  letter  still  more  harsh  than  the  first  j using  the 
epithets  of  knave  and  sharper,  and  containing  threats  of  prosecu- 
tion and  a prison. 

The  following  letter  from  poor  Goldsmith  gives  the  most  touch- 
ing picture  of  an  inconsiderate  but  sensitive  man,  harassed  by  care, 
stung  by  humiliations,  and  driven  almost  to  despondency. 

Sir,  — I know  of  no  misery  but  a jail  to  which  my  own  impru- 
dences and  your  letter  seem  to  point.  I have  seen  it  inevitable  these 
three  or  four  weeks,  and,  by  heavens  ! request  it  as  a favor  — as  a favor 
that  may  prevent  something  more  fatal.  I have  been  some  years  strug- 
gling with  a wretched  being  — with  all  that  contempt  that  indigence 
brings  with  it  — with  all  those  passions  which  make  contempt  insupport- 
able. What,  then,  has  a jail  that  is  formidable  ? I shall  at  least  have 
the  society  of  wretches,  and  such  is  to  me  true  society.  I tell  you,  again 
and  again,  that  I am  neither  able  nor  willing  to  pay  you  a farthing, 
but  I will  be  punctual  to  any  appointment  you  or  the  tailor  shall 
make  ; thus  far,  at  least,  I do  not  act  the  sharper,  since,  unable  to  pay 
my  own  debts  one  way,  I would  generally  give  some  security  another. 
No,  sir ; had  I been  a sharper  — had  I been  possessed  of  less  good-nature 
and  native  generosity,  I might  surely  now  have  been  in  better  cir- 
cumstances. 

“I  am  guilty,  I own,  of  meannesses  which  poverty  unavoidably 
brings  with  it : my  reflections  are  filled  with  repentance  for  my 
imprudence,  but  not  with  any  remorse  for  being  a villain  : that  may 
he  a character  you  unjustly  charge  me  with.  Your  books,  I can 
assure  you,  are  neither  pawned  nor  sold,  but  in  the  custody  of  a 
friend,  from  whom  my  necessities  obliged  me  to  borrow  some  money  : 
whatever  becomes  of  my  person,  you  shall  have  them  in  a month. 
It  is  very  possible  both  the  reports  you  heard  and  your  own  sugges- 


ADJUSTMENT  OF  DISPUTE, 


79 


tions  may  have  brought  you  false  information  with  respect  to  my 
character  ; it  is  very  possible  that  the  man  whom  you  now  regard  with 
detestation  may  inwardly  burn  with  grateful  resentment.  It  is  very 
possible  that,  upon  a second  perusal  of  the  letter  I sent  you,  you  may 
see  the  workings  of  a mind  strongly  agitated  with  gratitude  and 
jealousy.  If  such  circumstances  should  appear,  at  least  spare  invec- 
tive till  my  book  with  Mr.  Dodsley  shall  be  published,  and  then,  per- 
haps, you  may  see  the  bright  side  of  a mind,  when  my  professions 
shall  not  appear  the  dictates  of  necessity,  but  of  choice. 

‘‘You  seem  to  think  Dr.  Milner  knew  me  not.  Perhaps  so  ; but  he 
was  a man  I shall  ever  honor  ; but  I have  friendships  only  with  the 
dead  ! I ask  pardon  for  taking  up  so  much  time  ; nor  shall  I add  to  it 
by  any  other  professions  than  that  I am,  sir,  your  humble  servant, 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“ P.S.  — I shall  expect  impatiently  the  result  of  your  resolutions.” 

The  dispute  between  the  poet  and  the  publisher  was  afterward 
imperfectly  adjusted,  and  it  would  appear  that  the  clothes  were 
paid  for  by  a short  compilation  advertised  by  Griffiths  in  the  course 
of  the  following  month ; but  the  parties  were  never  really  friends 
afterward,  and  the  writings  of  Goldsmith  were  harshly  and  un- 
justly treated  in  the  Monthly  Review. 

We  have  given  the  preceding  anecdote  in  detail,  as  furnishing 
one  of  the  many  instances  in  which  Goldsmith’s  prompt  and 
benevolent  impulses  outran  all  prudent  forecast,  and  involved  him 
in  difficulties  and  disgraces  which  a more  selfish  man  would  have 
avoided.  The  pawning  of  the  clothes,  charged  upon  him  as  a 
crime  by  the  grinding  bookseller,  and  apparently  admitted  by  him 
as  one  of  ‘‘the  meannesses  which  poverty  unavoidably  brings  with 
it,”  resulted,  as  we  have  shown,  from  a tenderness  of  heart  and 
generosity  of  hand,  in  which  another  man  would  have  gloried; 
but  these  were  such  natural  elements  with  him,  that  he  was 
unconscious  of  their  merit.  It  is  a pity  that  wealth  does  not 
often er  bring  such  “ meannesses  ” in  its  train. 

And  now  let  us  be  indulged  in  a few  particulars  about  these 
lodgings  in  which  Goldsmith  was  guilty  of  this-  thoughtless  act 
of  benevolence.  They  were  in  a very  shabby  house,  No.  12  Green 
Arbor  Court,  between  the  Old  Bailey  and  Fleet  Market.  An  old 


80 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


woman  was  still  living  in  1820  who  was  a relative  of  the  identical 
landlady  whom  Goldsmith  relieved  by  the  money  received  from  the 
pawnbroker.  She  was  a child  about  seven  years  of  age  at  the 
time  that  the  poet  rented  his  apartment  of  her  relative,  and  used 
frequently  to  be  at  the  house  in  Green  Arbor  Court.  She  was 
drawn  there,  in  a great  measure,  by  the  good-humored  kindness’ of 
Goldsmith,  who  was  always  exceedingly  fond  of  the  society  of 
children.  He  used  to  assemble  those  of  the  family  in  his  room, 
give  them  cakes  and  sweetmeats,  and  set  them  dancing  to  the 
sound  of  his  Ante.  He  was  very  friendly  to  those  around  him,  and 
cultivated  a kind  of  intimacy  with  a watchmaker  in  the  Court, 
who  possessed  much  native  wit  and  humor.  He  passed  most  of 
the  day,  however,  in  his  room,  and  only  went  out  in  the  evenings. 
His  days  were  no  doubt  devoti^l  to  the  drudgery  of  the  pen,  and  it 
would  appear  that  he  occasionally  found  the  booksellers  urgent 
task-masters.  On  one  occasion  a visitor  was  shown  up  to  his 
room,  and  immediately  their  voices  were  heard  in  high  altercation, 
and  the  key  was  turned  within  the  lock.  The  landlady,  at  first, 
was  disposed  to  go  to  the  assistance  of  her  lodger ; but  a calm 
succeeding,  she  forbore  to  interfere. 

Late  in  the  evening  the  door  was  unlocked ; a supper  ordered 
by  the  visitor  from  a neighboring  tavern,  and  Goldsmith  and  his 
intrusive  guest  finished  the  evening  in  great  good-humor.  It  was 
probably  his  old  task-master  Griffiths,  whose  press  might  have 
been  waiting,  and  who  found  no  other  mode  of  getting  a stipu- 
lated task  from  Goldsmith  than  by  locking  him  in,  and  staying 
by  him  until  it  was  finished. 

But  we  have  a more  particular  account  of  these  lodgings  in 
Green  Arbor  Court  from  the  Eev.  Thomas  Percy,  afterward 
Bishop  of  Dromore,  and  celebrated  for  Ids  relics  of  ancient  poetry, 
his  beautiful  ballads,  and  other  works.  During  an  occasional 
visit  to  London,  he  was  introduced  to  Goldsmith  by  Grainger,  and 
ever  after  continued  one  of  his  most  steadfast  and  valued  friends. 
The  following  is  his  description  of  the  poet’s  squalid  apartment : 
“I  called  on  Goldsmith  at  his  lodgings  in  March,  1759,  and 


BEAU  TIBBS, 


81 


found  him  writing  liis  ‘ Inquiry/  in  a miserable,  dirty-looking 
room,  in  wliicli  there  was  but  one  chair ; and  when,  from  civility, 
he  resigned  it  to  me,  he  himself  was  obliged  to  sit  in  the  window. 
While  we  were  conversing  together,  some  one  tapped  gently  at  the 
door,  and,  being  desired  to  come  in,  a poor  ragged  little  girl,  of  a 
very  becoming  demeanor,  entered  the  room,  and,  dropping  a cour- 
tesy, said,  ‘My  mamma  sends  her  compliments,  and  begs  the 
favor  of  you  to  lend  her  a chamber-pot  full  of  coals.”’ 

We  are  reminded  in  this  anecdote  of  Goldsmith’s  picture  of  the 
lodgings  of  Beau  Tibbs,  and  of  the  peep  into  the  secrets  of  a 
make-shift  establishment  given  to  a visitor  by  the  blundering  old 
Scotch  woman. 

“ By  this  time  we  were  arrived  as  high  as  the  stairs  would  permit 
us  to  ascend,  till  we  came  to  what  he  was  facetiously  pleased  to  call 
the  first  fioor  down  the  chimney  ; and,  knocking  at  the  door,  a voice 
from  within  demanded  ‘ Who’s  there  ? ’ My  conductor  answered  that 
it  was  him.  But  this  not  satisfying  the  querist,  the  voice  again  re- 
peated the  demand,  to  which  he  answered  louder  than  before  ; and 
now  the  door  was  opened  by  an  old  woman  with  cautious  reluctance. 

“When  we  got  in,  he  welcomed  me  to  his  house  with  great  cere- 
mony ; and,  turning  to  the  old  woman,  asked  where  was  her  lady. 
‘Good  troth,’  replied  she,  in  a peculiar  dialect,  ‘she’s  washing  your 
twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because  they  have  taken  an  oath  against 
lending  the  tub  any  longer.’  ‘My  two  shirts,’  cried  he,  in  a tone 
that  faltered  with  confusion  ; ‘ what  does  the  idiot  mean  ? ’ ‘I  ken 
what  I mean  weel  enough,’  replied  the  other;  ‘she’s  washing  your 
twa  shirts  at  the  next  door,  because’ — ‘Fire  and  fury  ! no  more  of 
thy  stupid  explanations,’  cried  he  ; ‘go  and  inform  her  we  have  com- 
pany. Were  that  Scotch  hag  to  be  for  ever  in  my  family,  she  would 
never  learn  politeness,  nor  forget  that  absurd  poisonous  accent  of 
hers,  or  testify  the  smallest  specimen  of  breeding  or  high  life  ; and 
yet  it  is  very  surprising  too,  as  I had  her  from  a Parliament  man,  a 
friend  of  mine  from  the  Highlands,  one  of  the  politest  men  in  the 
world  ; but  that’s  a secret.’  ” i 

Let  us  linger  a little  in  Green  Arbor  Court,  a place  consecrated 
by  the  genius  and  the  poverty  of  Goldsmith,  but  recently  oblit- 


1 Citizen  of  the  World,  letter  iv. 


82 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


erated  in  the  course  of  modern  improvements.  The  writer  of  this 
memoir  visited  it  not  many  years  since  on  a literary  pilgrimage, 
and  may  be  excused  for  repeating  a description  of  it  which  he  has 
heretofore  inserted  in  another  publication. 

“ It  then  existed  in  its  pristine  state,  and  was  a small  square  of  tall 
and  miserable  houses,  the  very  intestines  of  which  seemed  turned  in- 
side out,  to  judge  from  the  old  garments  and  frippery  that  fluttered 
from  every  window.  It  appeared  to  be  a region  of  washerwomen,  and 
lines  were  stretched  about  the  little  square,  on  which  clothes  were 
dangling  to  dry. 

“Just  as  we  entered  the  square,  a scuffle  took  place  between  two 
viragoes  about  a disputed  right  to  a wash-tub,  and  immediately  the 
whole  community  was  in  a hubbub.  Heads  in  mob-caps  popped  out  of 
every  window,  and  such  a clamor  of  tongues  ensued  that  I was  fain  to 
stop  my  ears.  Every  amazon  took  part  with  one  or  other  of  the  dis- 
putants, and  brandished  her  arms,  dripping  with  soapsuds,  and  fired 
away  from  her  window  as  from  the  embrasure  of  a fortress ; while  the 
screams  of  children  nestled  and  cradled  in  every  procreant  chamber  of 
this  hive,  waking  with  the  noise,  set  up  their  shrill  pipes  to  swell  the 
general  concert.”  ^ 

While  in  these  forlorn  quarters,  suflering  under  extreme  depres- 
sion of  spirits,  caused  by  his  failure  at  Surgeons’  Hall,  the  disap- 
pointment of  his  hopes,  and  his  harsh  collisions  with  Griffiths, 
Goldsmith  wrote  the  following  letter  to  his  brother  Henry,  some 
parts  of  which  are  most  touchmgly  mournful. 

“ Dear  Sir,  — 

“Your  punctuality  in  answering  a man  whose  trade  is  writing,  is 
more  than  I had  reason  to  expect ; and  yet  you  see  me  generally  fill  a 
whole  sheet,  which  is  all  the  recompense  I can  make  for  being  so  fre- 
quently troublesome.  The  behavior  of  Mr.  Mills  and  Mr.  Lawder  is 
a little  extraordinary.  However,  their  answering  neither  you  nor  me 
is  a sufficient  indication  of  their  disliking  the  employment  which  I 
assigned  them.  As  their  conduct  is  different  from  what  I had  ex- 
pected, so  I have  made  an  alteration  in  mine.  I shall,  the  beginning 
of  next  month,  send  over  two  hundred  and  fifty  books, ^ which  are  all 


1 Tales  of  a Traveller. 

2 The  Inquiry  into  Polite  I4terature,  Hia  previous  remurks  apply  to 
the  suhscriptiou, 


LETTKli  TO  UTS  BnOTHER. 


83 


that  I fancy  can  be  well  sold  among  you,  and  I would  have  you  make 
some  distinction  in  the  persons  who  have  subscribed.  The  money, 
which  will  amount  to  sixty  pounds,  may  be  left  witli  Mr.  Bradley  as 
soon  as  possible.  I am  not  certain  but  I shall  quickly  have  occasion 
for  it. 

‘‘  I have  met  with  no  disappointment  with  respect  to  my  East  India 
voyage,  nor  are  my  resolutions  altered ; though,  at  the  same  time,  I 
must  confess,  it  gives  me  some  pain  to  think  I am  almost  beginning 
the  world  at  the  age  of  thirty-one.  Though  I never  had  a day’s  sick- 
ness since  I saw  you,  yet  I am  not  that  strong,  active  man  you  once 
knew  me.  You  scarcely  can  conceive  how^  much  eight  years  of  disap- 
pointment, anguish,  and  study  have  worn  me  down.  If  I remember 
right,  you  are  seven  or  eight  years  older  than  me,  yet  I dare  venture 
to  say,  that,  if  a stranger  saw  us  both,  he  would  pay  me  the  honors  of 
seniority.  Imagine  to  yourself  a pale,  melancholy  visage,  with  two 
great  wrinkles  between  the  eyebrows,  with  an  eye  disgustingly  severe, 
and  a big  wig,  and  you  may  have  a perfect  picture  of  my  present 
appearance.  On  the  other  hand,  I conceive  you  as  perfectly  sleek 
and  healthy,  passing  many  a happy  day  among  your  own  children,  or 
those  who  knew  you  a child. 

“ Since  I knew  what  it  was  to  be  a man,  this  is  a pleasure  I have 
not  known.  I have  passed  my  days  among  a parcel  of  cool,  designing 
beings,  and  have  contracted  all  their  suspicious  manner  in  my  own  be- 
havior. I should  actually  be  as  unfit  for  the  society  of  my  friends  at 
home,  as  I detest  that  which  I am  obliged  to  partake  of  here.  I can 
now  neither  partake  of  the  pleasure  of  a revel,  nor  contribute  to  raise 
its  jollity.  I can  neither  laugh  nor  drink  ; have  contracted  a hesitat- 
ing, disagreeable  manner  of  speaking,  and  a visage  that  looks  ill-nature 
itself ; in  short,  I have  thought  myself  into  a settled  melancholy,  and 
an  utter  disgust  of  all  that  life  brings  with  it.  Whence  this  romantic 
turn  that  all  our  family  are  possessed  with  ? Whence  this  love  for  every 
place  and  every  country  but  that  in  which  we  reside — for  every  occupa- 
tion but  our  own  ? this  desire  of  fortune,  and  yet  this  eagerness  to  dis- 
sipate ? I perceive,  my  dear  sir,  that  I am  at  intervals  for  indulging 
this  splenetic  manner,  and  following  my  own  taste,  regardless  of  yours. 

“ The  reasons  you  have  given  me  for  breeding  up  your  son  a 
scholar  are  judicious  and  convincing ; I should,  however,  be  glad  to 
know  for  what  particular  profession  he  is  designed.  If  he  be  assidu- 
ous and  divested  of  strong  passions  (for  passions  in  youth  always  lead 
to  pleasure),  he  may  do  very  well  in  your  college;  for  it  must  be 
owned  that  the  industrious  poor  have  good  encouragement  there,  per- 


84 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


haps  better  than  in  any  other  in  Europe.  But  if  he  has  ambition, 
strong  passions,  and  an  exquisite  sensibility  of  contempt,  do  not  send 
him  there,  unless  you  have  no  other  trade  for  him  but  your  own.  It 
is  impossible  to  conceive  how  much  may  be  done  by  proper  education 
at  home.  A boy,  for  instance,  who  understands  perfectly  well  Latin, 
French,  arithmetic,  and  the  principles  of  the  civil  law,  and  can  write 
a fine  liand,  has  an  education  that  may  qualify  him  for  any  undertak- 
ing ; and  these  parts  of  learning  should  be  carefully  inculcated,  let  him 
be  designed  for  whatever  calling  he  will. 

Above  all  things,  let  him  never  touch  a romance  or  novel:  these 
paint  beauty  in  colors  more  charming  than  nature,  and  describe  hap- 
piness that  man  never  tastes.  How  delusive,  how  destructive  are  those 
pictures  of  consummate  bliss  ! They  teach  the  youthful  mind  to  sigh 
after  beauty  and  happiness  that  never  existed ; to  despise  the  little 
good  which  fortune  has  mixed  in  our  cup,  by  expecting  more  than  she 
ever  gave  ; and,  in  general,  take  the  word  of  a man  who  has  seen  the 
world,  and  who  has  studied  human  nature  more  by  experience  than 
precept ; take  my  word  for  it,  I say,  that  books  teach  us  very  little  of 
the  world.  The  greatest  merit  in  a state  of  poverty  would  only  serve 
to  make  the  possessor  ridiculous  — may  distress,  but  cannot  relieve 
him.  Frugality,  and  even  avarice,  in  the  lower  orders  of  mankind, 
are  true  ambition.  These  afford  the  only  ladder  for  the  poor  to  rise  to 
preferment.  Teach  then,  my  dear  sir,  to  your  son,  thrift  and  econ- 
omy. Let  his  poor  wandering  uncle’s  example  be  placed  before  his 
eyes.  I had  learned  from  books  to  be  disinterested  and  generous, 
before  1 was  taught  from  experience  the  necessity  of  being  prudent. 
I had  contracted  the  habits  and  notions  of  a philosopher,  while  I was 
exposing  myself  to  the  approaches  of  insidious  cunning  ; and  often  by 
being,  even  with  my  narrow  finances,  charitable  to  excess,  I forgot  the 
rules  of  justice,  and  placed  myself  in  the  very  situation  of  the  wretch 
who  thanked  me  for  my  bounty.  When  I am  in  the  remotest  part  of 
the  world,  tell  him  this,  and  perhaps  he  may  improve  from  my  example. 
But  I find  myself  again  falling  into  my  gloomy  habits  of  thinking. 

“ My  mother,  I am  informed,  is  almost  blind  ; even  though  I had 
the  utmost  inclinatioD  "o  return  home,  under  such  circumstances  I 
could  not,  for  to  behold  her  in  distress  without  a capacity  of  relieving 
her  from  it,  would  add  much  to  my  splenetic  habit.  Your  last  letter 
was  much  too  short ; it  should  have  answered  some  queries  I had 
made  in  my  former.  Just  sit  down  as  I do,  and  write  forward  until 
you  have  filled  all  your  paper.  It  requires  no  thought,  at  least  from 
the  ease  with  which  my  own  sentiments  rise  when  they  are  addressed 


LETTER  TO  IIIS  BROTHER, 


85 


to  you.  For,  believe  me,  my  head  has  no  share  in  all  I write  ; my 
heart  dictates  the  whole.  Pray  give  my  love  to  P>ob  Bryanton,  and 
entreat  him  from  me  not  to  drink.  My  dear  sir,  give  me  some  account 
about  poor  Jenny. i Yet  her  husband  loves  her;  if  so,  she  cannot  be 
unhappy. 

. ‘‘I  know  not  whether  I should  tell  you  — yet  why  should  I conceal 
these  trifles,  or,  indeed,  anything  from  you  ? There  is  a book  of  mine 
will  be  published  in  a few  days  : the  life  of  a very  extraordinary  man  ; 
no  less  than  the  great  Voltaire.  You  know  already  by  the  title  that  it 
is  no  more  than  a catchpenny.  However,  I spent  but  four  weeks  on  the 
whole  performance,  for  which  I received  twenty  pounds.  When  pub- 
lished, I shall  take  some  method  of  conveying  it  to  you,  unless  you 
may  think  it  dear  of  the  postage,  which  may  amount  to  four  or  flve 
shillings.  However,  I fear  you  will  not  And  an  equivalent  of  amuse- 
ment. 

“ Your  last  letter,  I repeat  it,  was  too  short ; you  should  have  given 
me  your  opinion  of  the  design  of  the  heroi-comical  poem  which  I sent 
you.  You  remember  I intended  to  introduce  the  hero  of  the  poem  as 
lying  in  a paltry  ale-house.  You  may  take  the  following  specimen  of 
the  manner,  which  I flatter  myself  is  quite  original.  The  room  in 
which  he  lies  may  be  described  somewhat  in  this  way  : — 

“ ‘ The  window,  patched  with  paper,  lent  a ray 
That  feebly  show’d  the  state  in  which  he  lay  ; 

The  sanded  floor  that  grits  beneath  the  tread, 

The  humid  wall  with  paltry  pictures  spread  ; 

The  game  of  goose  was  there  exposed  to  view, 

And  the  twelve  rules  the  royal  martyr  drew  ; 

The  Seasons,  framed  with  listing,  found  a place. 

And  Prussia’s  monarch  show’d  his  lamp-black  face. 

The  morn  was  cold ; he  views  with  keen  desire 
A rusty  grate  unconscious  of  a Are  ; 

An  unpaid  reckoning  on  the  frieze  was  scored. 

And  five  crack’d  tea-cups  dress’d  the  chimney-board.’ 

“ And  now  imagine,  after  his  soliloquy,  the  landlord  to  make  his 
appearance  in  orcfer  to  dun  him  for  the  reckoning  : — 

“ ‘ Not  with  that  face,  so  servile  and  so  gay. 

That  welcomes  every  stranger  that  can  pay : 

1 His  sister,  Mrs.  Johnston  ; her  marriage,  like  that  of  Mrs.  Hodson,  was 
private,  hut  in  pecuniary  matters  much  less  fortunate. 


86 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


With  sulky  eye  he  smoked  the  patient  man, 

Then  pull’d  his  breeches  tight,  and  thus  began,’  «&c.i  I 

‘‘All  this  is  taken,  you  see,  from  nature.  It  is  a good  remark  of  ] 
Montaigne’s,  that  the  wisest  men  often  have  friends  with  whom  they  i 
do  not  care  how  much  they  play  the  fool.  Take  my  present  follies  as  i 
instances  of  my  regard.  Poetry  is  a much  easier  and  more  agreeable 
species  of  composition  than  prose  ; and,  could  a man  live  by  it,  it  were 
not  unpleasant  employment  to  be  a poet.  I am  resolved  to  leave  no 
space,  though  I should  fill  it  up  only  by  telling  you,  what  you  very 
well  know  already,  I mean  that  I am  your  most  affectionate  friend  and 
brother, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

The  Life  of  Voltaire,  alluded  to  in  the  latter  part  of  the 
preceding  letter,  was  the  literary  job  undertaken  to  satisfy  the 
demands  of  Griffiths.  It  was  to  have  preceded  a translation  of 
the  Henriade,  by  Ned  Purdon,  Goldsmith’s  old  schoolmate,  now 
a Grub-Street  writer,  who  starved  rather  than  lived  by  the  exer- 
cise of  his  pen,  and  often  tasked  Goldsmith’s  scanty  means  to  l 
relieve  his  hunger.  His  miserable  career  was  summed  up  by  i 
our  poet  in  the  following  lines  written  some  years  after  the 

time  we  are  treating  of,  on  hearing  that  he  had  suddenly 

dropped  dead  in  Smithfield  : — 

“ Here  lies  poor  Ned  Purdon,  from  misery  freed. 

Who  long  was  a bookseller’s  hack : 

He  led  such  a damnable  life  in  this  world, 

I don’t  think  he’ll  wish  to  come  back.”  ! 

The  memoir  and  translation,  though  advertised  to  form  a 
volume,  were  not  published  together,  but  appeared  separately  in  J 
a magazine. 

As  to  the  heroi-comical  poem,  also,  cited  in  the  foregoing 

letter,  it  appears  to  have  perished  in  embryo.  Had  it  been 

brought  to  maturity,  we  should  have  had  further  traits  of  auto- 
biography ; the  room  already  described  was  probably  his  own 
squalid  quarters  in  Green  Arbor  Court ; and  in  a subsequent 

1 The  projected  poem,  of  which  the  above  were  specimens,  appears  never 
to  have  been  completedo 


87 


PUBLICATION  OF  THE  INQUIHV.'’ 

morsel  of  the  poem  we  have  the  poet  himself,  under  the  eupho- 
nious name  of  Scroggiii : — 

‘‘  Where  the  Red  Lion  peering  o’er  the  way, 

Invites  each  passing  stranger  that  can  pay  ; 

Where  Calvert’s  butt  and  Parson’s  black  champagne 
Regale  the  drabs  and  bloods  of  Drury  Lane  : 

There,  in  a lonely  room,  from  bailiffs  snug, 

The  muse  found  Scroggin  stretch’d  beneath  a rug; 

A nightcap  deck’d  his  brows  instead  of  bay, - 
A cap  by  night,  a stocking  all  the  day  ! ” 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  this  poetical  conception  was  not  car- 
ried out ; like  the  author’s  other  writings,  it  might  have  abounded 
with  pictures  of  life  and  touches  of  nature  drawn  from  his  own 
observation  and  experience,  and  mellowed  by  his  own  humane 
and  tolerant  spirit ; and  might  have  been  a worthy  companion 
or  rather  contrast  to  his  Traveller  and  Deserted  Village^  and 
have  remained  in  the  language  a first-rate  specimen  of  the  mock- 
heroic. 


CHAPTER  XL 

Towards  the  end  of  March,  1759,  the  treatise  on  which  Cold- 
smith  had  laid  so  much  stress,  on  which  he  at  one  time  had 
calculated  to  defray  the  expenses  of  his  outfit  to  India,  and  to 
which  he  had  adverted  in  his  correspondence  with  Griffiths,  made 
its  appearance.  It  was  published  by  the  Dodsleys,  and  entitled 
An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  in  Eu- 
rope, 

In  the  present  day,  when  the  whole  field  of  contemporary 
literature  is  so  widely  surveyed  and  amply  discussed,  and  when 
the  current  productions  of  every  country  are  constantly  collated 
and  ably  criticised,  a treatise  like  that  of  Goldsmith  would  be  con- 
sidered as  extremely  limited  and  unsatisfactory ; but  at  that  time 
it  possessed  novelty  in  its  views  and  wideness  in  its  scope,  and 
being  imbued  with  the  peculiar  charm  of  style  inseparable  from 


88 


OLlVEli  GOLDSMITH. 


the  author,  it  coimnanded  public  attention  and  a profitable  sale. 
As  it  was  the  most  important  production  that  had  yet  come  from 
Goldsmith’s  pen,  he  was  anxious  to  have  the  credit  of  it ; yet 
it  appeared  without  his  name  on  the  title-page.  The  author- 
ship, however,  was  well  known  throughout  the  world  of  letters, 
and  the  author  had  now  grown  into  sufiicient  literary  importance 
to  become  an  object  of  hostility  to  the  underlings  of  the  press. 
One  of  the  most. virulent  attacks  upon  him  was  in  a criticism  on 
this  treatise,  and  appeared  in  the  Monthly  Review  to  which  he 
himself  had  been  recently  a contributor.  It  slandered  him  as  a 
man  while  it  decried  him  as  an  author,  and  accused  him,  by  innu- 
endo, of  “laboring  under  the  infamy  of  having,  by  the  vilest  and 
meanest  actions,  forfeited  all  pretensions  to  honor  and  honesty,” 
and  of  practising  “ those  acts  which  bring  the  sharper  to  the 
cart’s  tail  or  the  pillory.” 

It  will  be  remembered  that  the  Revieiv  was  owned  by  Griffiths 
the  bookseller,  with  whom  Goldsmith  had  recently  had  a misunder- 
standing. The  criticism,  therefore,  was  no  doubt  dictated  by  the 
fingerings  of  resentment,  and  the  imputations  upon  Goldsmith’s 
character  for  honor  and  honesty,  and  the  vile  and  mean  actions 
hinted  at,  could  only  allude  to  the  unfortunate  pawning  of  the 
clothes.  All  this,  too,  was  after  Griffiths  had  received  the  affect- 
ing letter  from  Goldsmith,  drawing  a picture  of  his  poverty  and 
perplexities,  and  after  the  latter  had  made  him  a literary  com- 
pensation. Griffiths,  in  fact,  was  sensible  of  the  falsehood  and 
extravagance  of  the  attack,  and  tried  to  exonerate  himself  by 
declaring  that  the  criticism  was  written  by  a person  in  his 
employ ; but  we  see  no  difference  in  atrocity  between  him  who 
wields  the  knife  and  him  who  hires  the  cut-throat.  It  may  be 
well,  however,  in  passing,  to  bestow  our  mite  of  notoriety  upon 
the  miscreant  who  launched  the  slander.  He  deserves  it  for  a 
long  course  of  dastardly  and  venomous  attacks,  not  merely  upon 
Goldsmith,  but  upon  most  of  the  successful  authors  of  the  day. 
His  name  was  Kenrick.  He  was  originally  a mechanic,  but 
possessing  some  degree  of  talent  and  industry,  applied  himself  to 


A UrERAEY  ISHMAELITE. 


89 


literature  as  a profession.  This  he  pursued  for  many  years,  and 
tried  his  hand  in  every  department  of  prose  and  poetry ; he 
wrote  plays  and  satires,  philosophical  tracts,  critical  dissertations, 
and  works  on  philology  ; nothing  from  his  pen  ever  rose  to  first- 
rate  excellence,  or  gained  him  a popular  name,  though  he 
received  from  some  university  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Laws. 
Dr.  Johnson  characterized  his  literary  career  in  one  short 
sentence.  “ Sir,  he  is  one  of  the  many  who  have  made  them- 
selves public  without  making  themselves  knoivnP 

Soured  by  his  own  want  of  success,  jealous  of  the  success  of 
others,  his  natural  irritability  of  temper  increased  by  habits  of 
intemperance,  lie  at  length  abandoned  himself  to  the  practice  of  re- 
viewing, and  became  one  of  the  Ishmaelites  of  the  press.  In  this 
his  malignant  bitterness  soon  gave  him  a notoriety  which  his 
talents  had  never  been  able  to  attain.  We  shall  dismiss  him 
for  the  present  with  the  following  sketch  of  him  by  the  hand  of 
one  of  his  contemporaries  : — 

“ Dreaming  of  genius  which  he  never  had, 

Half  wit,  half  fool,  half  critic,  and  half  mad  ; 

Seizing,  like  Shirley,  on  the  poet’s  lyre. 

With  all  his  rage,  but  not  one  spark  of  fire ; 

Eager  for  slaughter,  and  resolved  to  tear 

From  others’  brows  that  wreath  he  must  not  wear  — 

Next  Kenrick  came  : all  furious  and  replete 
With  brandy,  malice,  pertness,  and  conceit ; 

Unskill’d  in  classic  lore,  through  envy  blind 
To  all  that’s  beauteous,  learned,  or  refined  : 

For  faults  alone  behold  the  savage  prowl. 

With  reason’s  offal  glut  his  ravening  soul ; 

Pleased  with  his  prey,  its  inmost  blood  he  drinks. 

And  mumbles,  paws,  and  turns  it  — till  it  stinks.” 

The  British  press  about  this  time  was  extravagantly  fruitful 
of  periodical  publications.  That  “ oldest  inhabitant,”  the  Gentle- 
man^ s Magazine^  almost  coeval  with  St.  John’s  gate  which  graced 
its  title-page,  had  long  been  elbowed  by  magazines  and  reviews 
of  all  kinds  : Johnson’s  Rambler  had  introduced  the  fashion  of 


90 


OLIVER  GOLB SMITH. 


periodical  essays,  which  he  had  followed  up  in  his  Adventuref 
and  Idler.  Imitations  had  sprung  up  on  every  side,  under  every 
variety  of  name ; until  British  literature  was  entirely  overrun 
by  a weedy  and  transient  efflorescence.  Many  of  these  rival 
periodicals  choked  each  other  almost  at  the  outset,  and  few  of 
them  have  escaped  oblivion. 

Goldsmith  wrote  for  some  of  the  most  successful,  such  as  the 
Bee^  the  Busy-bod/t/^  and  the  Lady^s  Magazine.  His  essays, 
though  characterized  by  his  delightful  style,  his  pure,  benevolent 
morality,  and  his  mellow,  unobtrusive  humor,  did  not  produce 
equal  effect  at  first  with  more  garish  writings  of  infinitely  less 
value ; they  did  not  “ strike,”  as  it  is  termed ; but  they  had  that 
rare  and  enduring  merit  which  rises  in  estimation  on  every 
perusal.  They  gradually  stole  upon  the  heart  of  the  public,  were 
copied  into  numerous  contemporary  publications,  and  now  they  are, 
garnered  up  among  the  choice  productions  of  British  literature. 

In  his  Inquiry  into  the  State  of  Polite  Learning.^  Goldsmith 
had  given  offence  to  David  Garrick,  at  that  time  autocrat  of  the 
Drama,  and  was  doomed  to  experience  its  effect.  A clamor  had 
been  raised  against  Garrick  for  exercising  a despotism  over  the 
stage,  and  bringing  forward  nothing  but  old  plays  to  the  exclusion 
of  original  productions.  Walpole  joined  in  this  charge.  ‘‘Gar- 
rick,” said  he,  “ is  treating  the  town  as  it  deserves  and  likes  to 
be  treated,  — with  scenes,  fire- works,  and  hi^  oivn  writings.  A 
good  new  play  I never  expect  to  see  more ; nor  have  seen  since 
the  ‘ Provoked  Husband,’  which  came  out  when  I was  at  school.” 
Goldsmith,  who  was  extremely  fond  of  the  theatre,  and  felt  the 
evils  of  this  system,  inveighed  in  his  treatise  against  the  wrongs 
experienced  by  authors  at  the  hands  of  managers.  “ Our  poet’s 
performance,”  said  he,  “must  undergo  a process  truly  chemical 
before  it  is  presented  to  the  public.  It  must  be  tried  in  the 
manager’s  fire ; strained  through  a licenser,  suffer  from  repeated 
corrections,  till  it  may  be  a mere  caput  mortuum  when  it  arrives 
before  the  public.”  Again,  — “Getting  a play  on  even  in  three 
or  four  years  is  a privilege  reserved  only  for  the  happy  few  who 


GARRICK  AS  A MANAGER, 


91 


have  the  arts  of  courting  the  manager  as  well  as  the  Muse ; who 
have  adulation  to  please  his  vanity,  powerful  patrons  to  support 
their  merit,  or  money  to  indemnify  disappointment.  Our  Saxon 
ancestors  had  but  one  name  for  a*wit  and  a witch.  I will  not 
dispute  the  propriety  of  uniting  those  characters  then ; but  the 
man  who  under  present  discouragements  ventures  to  write  for 
the  stage,  whatever  claim  he  may  have  to  the  appellation  of  a 
wit,  at  least  has  no  right  to  be  called  a conjurer.”  But  a passage 
which  perhaps  touched  more  sensibly  than  all  the  rest  on  the 
sensibilities  of  Garrick,  was  the  following  : — 

“I  have  no  particular  spleen  against  the  fellow  who  sweeps  the 
stage  with  the  besom,  or  the  hero  who  brushes  it  with  his  train.  It 
were  a matter  of  indifference  to  me,  whether  our  heroines  are  in  keep- 
ing, or  our  candle-snuffers  burn  their  fingers,  did  not  such  make  a great 
part  of  public  care  and  polite  conversation.  Our  actors  assume  all 
that  state  off  the  stage  which  they  do  on  it ; and,  to  use  an  expression 
borrowed  from  the  green-room,  every  one  is  up  in  his  part.  I am 
sorry  to  say  it,  they  seem  to  forget  their  real  characters.” 

These  strictures  were  considered  by  Garrick  as  intended  for 
himself,  and  they  were  rankling  in  his  mind  when  Goldsmith 
waited  upon  him  and  solicited  his  vote  for  the  vacant  secretary- 
ship of  the  Society  of  Arts,  of  which  the  manager  was  a member. 
Garrick,  puffed  up  by  his  dramatic  renown  and  his  intimacy  with 
the  great,  and  knowing  Goldsmith  only  by  his  budding  reputation, 
may  not  have  considered  him  of  sufficient  importance  to  be  con- 
ciliated. In  reply  to  his  solicitations,  he  observed  that  he  could 
hardly  expect  his  friendly  exertions  after  the  unprovoked  attack 
he  had  made  upon  his  management.  Goldsmith  replied  that  he 
had  indulged  in  no  personalities,  and  had  only  spoken  what  he 
believed  to  be  the  truth.  He  made  no  further  apology  nor  appli- 
cation ; failed  to  get  the  appointment,  and  considered  Garrick  his 
enemy.  In  the  second  edition  of  his  treatise  he  expunged  or  modi- 
fied the  passages  which  had  given  the  manager  offence ; but 
though  the  author  and  actor  became  intimate  in  after  years,  this 
false  step  at  the  outset  of  their  intercourse  was  never  forgotten. 


92 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


About  this  time  Goldsmith  engaged  with  Dr.  Smollett,  who 
was  about  to  launch  the  British  Magazine.  Smollett  was  a com- 
plete schemer  and  speculator  in  literature,  and  intent  upon  enter- 
prises that  had  money  rather  than  reputation  in  view.  Goldsmith 
has  a good-humored  hit  at  this  propensity  in  one  of  his  papers  in 
the  Bee,^  in  which  he  represents  Johnson,  Hume,  and  others  tak- 
ing seats  in  the  stage-coach  bound  for  Fame^  while  Smollett 
prefers  that  destined  for  Kiches. 

Another  prominent  employer  of  Goldsmith  was  Mr.  John  New- 
bery,  who  engaged  him  to  contribute  occasional  essays  to  a news- 
paper entitled  the  Public  Ledger^  which  made  its  first  appearance 
on  the  12th  of  January,  1760.  His  most  valuable  and  character- 
istic contributions  to  this  paper  were  his  Chinese  Letters,” 
subsequently  modified  into  the  Citizen  of  the  World.  These 
lucubrations  attracted  general  attention  ; they  were  reprinted  in 
the  various  periodical  publications  of  the  day,  and  met  with  great 
applause.  The  name  of  the  author,  however,  was  as  yet  but  little 
known. 

Being  now  easier  in  circumstances,  and  in  the  receipt  of  fre- 
quent sums  from  the  booksellers.  Goldsmith,  about  the  middle  of 
1760,  emerged  from  his  dismal  abode  in  Green  Arbor  Court,  and 
took  respectable  apartments  in  Wine-Office  Court,  Fleet  Street. 

Still  he  continued  to  look  back  with  considerate  benevolence  to 
the  poor  hostess,  whose  necessities  he  had  relieved  by  pawning 
his  gala  coat,  for  we  are  told  that  “he  often  supplied  her  with 
food  from  his  own  table,  and  visited  her  frequently  with  the  sole 
purpose  to  be  kind  to  her.” 

He  now  became  a member  of  a debating  club,  called  the  Robin 
Hood,  which  used  to  meet  near  Temple  Bar,  and  in  which  Burke, 
while  yet  a Temple  student,  had  first  tried  his  powers.  Gold- 
smith spoke  here  occasionally,  and  is  recorded  in  the  Robin  Hood 
archives  as  “ a candid  disputant  with  a clear  head  and  an  honest 
heart,  though  coming  but  seldom  to  the  society.”  His  relish  was 
for  clubs  of  a more  social,  jovial  nature,  and  he  was  never  fond  of 
argument.  An  amusing  anecdote  is  told  of  his  first  introduction 


PILKINGTON^S  WHITE  MICE. 


93 


to  the  club,  by  Samuel  Derrick,  an  Irish  acquaintance  of  some 
humor.  On  entering.  Goldsmith  was  struck  with  the  self-impor- 
tant appearance  of  the  chairman  ensconced  in  a large  gilt  chair. 

This,”  said  he,  “ must  be  the  Lord  Chancellor  at  least.”  “No, 
no,”  replied  Derrick,  “he’s  only  master  of  the  roZ/s.”  — The 
chairman  was  a baker. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

In  his  new  lodgings  in  Wine-Office  Court,  Goldsmith  began  to 
receive  visits  of  ceremony,  and  to  entertain  his  literary  friends. 
Among  the  latter  he  now  numbered  several  names  of  note,  such 
as  Guthrie,  Murphy,  Christopher  Smart,  and  Bickerstaff.  He 
had  also  a numerous  class  of  hangers-on,  the  small  fry  of  litera- 
ture ; who,  knowing  his  almost  utter  incapacity  to  refuse  a pecun- 
iary request,  were  apt,  now  tliat  he  was  considered  flush,  to  levy 
continual  taxes  upon  his  purse. 

Among  others,  one  Pilkington,  an  old  college  acquaintance,  but 
now  a shifting  adventurer,  duped  him  in  the  most  ludicrous 
manner.  He  called  on  him  with  a face  full  of  perplexity.  A 
lady  of  the  first  rank  having  an  extraordinary  fancy  for  curious 
animals,  for  whicli  she  was  willing  to  give  enormous  sums,  he 
had  procured  a couple  of  white  mice  to  be  forwarded  to  her  from 
India.  Tliey  were  actually  on  board  of  a ship  in  the  river.  Her 
grace  had  been  apprised  of  their  arrival,  and  was  all  impatience 
to  see  them.  Unfortunately,  he  had  no  cage  to  put  them  in,  nor 
clothes  to  appear  in  before  a lady  of  her  rank.  Two  guineas 
would  be  sufficient  for  his  purpose,  but  where  were  two  guineas 
to  be  procured ! 

The  simple  heart  of  Goldsmith  was  touched ; but,  alas  ! he  had 
but  half  a guinea  in  his  pocket.  It  was  unfortunate,  but,  after  a 
pause,  his  friend  suggested,  with  some  hesitation,  “ that  money 
might  be  raised  upon  his  watch  : it  would  but  be  the  loan  of  a* 
few  hours.”  So  said,  so  done ; the  watch  was  delivered  to  the 
worthy  Mr.  Pilkington  to  be  jjledged  at  a neighboring  pawn- 


94 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


broker’s,  but  nothing  farther  was  ever  seen  of  him,  the  watch,  or 
the  white  mice.  The  next  that  Goldsmith  heard  of  the  poor 
shifting  scapegrace,  he  was  on  his  death-bed,  starving  with  want, 
upon  which,  forgetting  or  forgiving  the  trick  he  had  played  upon 
him,  he  sent  him  a guinea.  Indeed  he  used  often  to  relate  with 
great  humor  the  foregoing  anecdote  of  his  credulity,  and  was 
ultimately  in  some  degree  indemnified  by  its  suggesting  to  him  the 
amusing  little  story  of  Prince  Bonbennin  and  the  White  Mouse  in 
the  Citizen  of  the  World. 

In  this  year  Goldsmith  became  personally  acquainted  with  Dr. 
Johnson,  toward  whom  he  was  drawn  by  strong  sympathies, 
though  their  natures  were  widely  different.  Both  had  struggled 
from  early  life  with  poverty,  but  had  struggled  in  different  ways. 
Goldsmith,  buoyant,  heedless,  sanguine,  tolerant  of  evils,  and 
easily  pleased,  had  shifted  along  by  any  temporary  expedient ; 
cast  down  at  every  turn,  but  rising  again  with  indomitable 
good-humor,  and  still  carried  forward  by  his  talent  at 
hoping.  Johnson,  melancholy,  and  hypochondriacal,  and  prone  to 
apprehend  the  worst,  yet  sternly  resolute  to  battle  with  and 
conquer  it,  had  made  his  way  doggedly  and  gloomily,  but  with  a 
noble  principle  of  self-reliance  and  a disregard  of  foreign  aid. 
Both  had  been  irregular  at  college  : Goldsmith,  as  we  have  shown, 
from  the  levity  of  his  nature  and  his  social  and  convivial  habits  ; 
Johnson,  from  his  acerbity  and  gloom.  When,  in  after-life,  the  latter 
heard  himself  spoken  of  as  gay  and  frolicsome  at  college,  because 
he  had  joined  in  some  riotous  excesses  there,  “ Ah,  sir ! ” replied 
he,  “ I was  mad  and  violent.  It  was  bitterness  which  they  mis- 
took for  frolic.  1 ivas  iniserahly  poor.,  and  I thought  to  fight  my 
way  by  my  literature  and  my  wit.  So  I disregarded  all  power 
and  all  authority.” 

Goldsmith’s  poverty  was  never  accompanied  by  bitterness ; but 
neither  was  it  accompanied  by  the  guardian  pride  which  kept 
.Johnson  from  falling  into  the  degrading  shifts  of  poverty.  Gold- 
smith had  an  unfortunate  facility  at  borrowing,  and  helping  him- 
self along  by  the  contributions  of  his  friends ; no  doubt  trusting, 


JOHNSON  AND  GATlTiTCK, 


95 


in  his  iiopeful  .way,  of  one  day  making  retribution.  Johnson 
never  hoped,  and  tlierefore  never  borrowed.  In  his  sternest  trials 
he  proudly  bore  the  ills  he  could  not  master.  In  his  youth,  when 
some  unknown  friend,  seeing  his  shoes  completely  worn  out,  left  a 
new  pair  at  his  chamber-door,  he  disdained  to  accept  the  boon, 
and  threw  them  away. 

Though  like  Goldsmith  an  immethodical  student,  he  had 
imbibed  deeper  draughts  of  knowledge,  and  made  himself  a riper 
scholar.  While  Goldsmith’s  happy  constitution  and  genial 
humors  carried  him  abroad  into  sunshine  and  enjoyment,  Johnson’s 
physical  infirmities  and  mental  gloom  drove  him  upon  himself ; to 
the  resources  of  reading  and  meditation  ; threw  a deeper  though 
darker  enthusiasm  into  his  mind,  and  stored  a retentive  memory 
with  all  kinds  of  knowledge. 

After  several  years  of  youth  passed  in  the  country  as  usher, 
teacher,  and  an  occasional  writer  for  the  press,  Johnson,  when 
twenty-eight  years  of  age,  came  up  to  London  with  a half-written 
tragedy  in  his  pocket ; and  David  Garrick,  late  his  pupil,  and 
several  years  his  junior,  as  a companion,  both  poor  and  penniless, 
— both,  like  Goldsmith,  seeking  their  fortune  in  the  metropolis. 
“We  rode  and  tied,”  said  Garrick  sportively  in  after-years  of 
prosperity,  when  he  spoke  of  their  humble  wayhiring.  “ I came 
to  London,”  said  Johnson,  “ with  twopence  halfpenny  in  my 
pocket.”  — “ Eh,  whaLs  that  you  say  ? ” cried  Garrick,  “ with 
twopence  halfpenny  in  your  pocket  ? ” “ Why,  yes  : I came  with 

twopence  halfpenny  in  my  pocket,  and  thou,  Davy,  with  but  three 
halfpence  in  thine.”  Nor  was  there  much  exaggeration  in  the 
picture  ; for  so  poor  were  they  in  purse  and  credit,  that  after 
their  arrival  they  had,  with  difficulty,  raised  five  pounds,  by  giving 
their  joint  note  to  a bookseller  in  the  Strand. 

Many,  many  years  had  Johnson  gone  on  obscurely  in  London, 
“ fighting  his  way  by  his  literature  and  his  wit ; ” enduring  all 
the  hardships  and  miseries  of  a Grub-Street  writer  : so  destitute 
at  one  time,  that  he  and  Savage  the  poet  had  walked  all  night 
about  St.  James’s  Square,  both  too  poor  to  pay  for  a night’s  lodg- 


96 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


ing,  yet  both  full  of  poetry  and  patriotism,  anc}  determined  to 
stand  by  their  country ; so  shabby  in  dress  at  another  time,  that, 
when  he  dined  at  Cave’s,  his  bookseller,  when  there  was  prosper- 
ous company,  he  could  not  make  his  appearance  at  table,  but  had 
his  dinner  handed  to  him  behind  a screen. 

Yet  through  all  the  long  and  dreary  struggle,  often  diseased  in 
mind  as  well  as  in  body,  he  had  been  resolutely  self-dependent, 
and  proudly  self-respectful;  he  had  fulfilled  his  college  vow,  he 
had  ‘‘fought  his  way  by  his  literature  and  wit.”  His  Rambler 
and  Idler  had  made  him  the  great  moralist  of  the  age,  and  his 
Dictionary  and,  History  of  the  English  Language^  that  stupen- 
dous monument  of  individual  labor,  had  excited  the  admiration  of 
the  learned  world.  He  was  now  at  the  head  of  intellectual 
society  ; and  had  become  as  distinguished  by  his  conversational  as 
his  literary  powers.  He  had  become  as  much  an  autocrat  in  his 
sphere  as  his  fellow-wayfarer  and  adventurer  Garrick  had  become 
of  th€  stage,  and  had  been  humorously  dubbed  by  Smollett,  “ The 
Great  Cham  of  Literature.” 

Such  was  Dr.  Johnson,  when  on  the  31st  of  May,  1761,  he 
was  to  make  his  appearance  as  a guest  at  a literary  supper  given 
by  Goldsmith  to  a numerous  party  at  his  new  lodgings  in  Wine- 
Office  Court.  It  was  the  opening  of  their  acquaintance.  John- 
son had  felt  and  acknowledged  the  merit  of  Goldsmith  as  an 
author,  and  been  pleased  by  the  honorable  mention  made  of  him- 
self in  the  Bee  and  the  “ Chinese  Letters.”  Dr.  Percy  called  upon 
Johnson  to  take  him  to  Goldsmith’s  lodgings ; he  found  Johnson 
arrayed  with  unusual  care  in  a new  suit  of  clothes,  a new  hat,  and 
a well-powdered  wig ; and  could  not  but  notice  his  uncommon 
spruceness.  “Why,  sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “I  hear  that  Gold- 
smith, who  is  a very  great  sloven,  justifies  his  disregard  of  cleanli- 
ness and  decency  by  quoting  my  practice,  and  I am  desirous  this 
night  to  show  him  a better  example.” 

The  acquaintance  thus  commenced  ripened  into  intimacy  in  the 
course  of  frequent  meetings  in  the  shop  of  Davies,  the  bookseller, 
in  Russell  Street,  Coveiit  Garden.  As  this  was  one  of  the  great 


BAVIES  AND  IIIS  BOOKSHOP, 


97 


literary  gossipiiig-places  of  the  day,  especially  to  the  circle  over 
which  Johnson  presided,  it  is  worthy  of  some  specification.  Mr. 
Thomas  Davies,  noted  in  after-times  as  the  biographer  of  Garrick, 
had  originally  been  on  the  stage,  and  though  a small  man,  had 
enacted  tyrannical  tragedy  with  a pomp  and  magniloquence 
beyond  his  size,  if  we  may  trust  the  description  given  of  him  by 
Churchill  in  the  Rosciad : — 

“ Statesman  all  over — in  plots  famous  grown, 

He  mouths  a sentence  as  curs  mouth  a hone.’’'' 

This  unlucky  sentence  is  said  to  have  crippled  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  tragic  career,  and  ultimately  to  have  driven  him  from  the 
stage.  He  carried  into  the  bookselling  craft  somewhat  of  the 
grandiose  manner  of  the  stage,  and  was  prone  to  be  mouthy  and 
magniloquent. 

.Churchill  had  intimated,  that  while  on  the  stage  he  was  more 
noted  for  his  pretty  wife  than  his  good  acting : 

“ With  him  came  mighty  Davies  ; on  my  life. 

That  fellow  has  a very  pretty  wife.” 

Pretty  Mrs.  Davies  ” continued  to  be  the  load-star  of  his 
fortunes.  Her  tea-table  became  almost  as  much  a literary  lounge 
as  her  husband’s  shop.  She  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  Ursa 
Major  of  literature  by  her  winning  ways,  as  she  poured  out  for  him 
cups  without  stint  of  his  favorite  beverage.  Indeed  it  is  sug- 
gested that  she  was  one  leading  cause  of  his  habitual  resort  to 
this  literary  haunt.  Others  were  drawn  thither  for  the  sake  of 
Johnson’s  conversation,  and  thus  it  became  a resort  of  many  of  the 
notorieties  of  the  day.  Here  might  occasionally  be  seen  Bennet 
Langton,  George  Steevens,  Dr.  Percy,  celebrated  for  his  ancient 
ballads,  and  sometimes  Warburton  in  prelatic  state.  Garrick 
resorted  to  it  for  a time,  but  soon  grew  shy  and  suspicious,  declar 
ing  that  most  of  the  authors  who  frequented  Mr.  Davies’s  shop 
went  merely  to  abuse  him. 

Foote,  the  Aristophanes  of  the  day,  was  a frequent  visitor ; his 
broad  face  beaming  with  fun  and  waggery,  and  his  satirical  eye 


98 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


ever  on  the  lookout  for  characters  and  incidents  for  his  farces. 
He  was  struck  with  the  odd  habits  and  appearance  of  Johnson 
and  Goldsmith,  now  so  often  brought  together  in  Davies’s  shop. 
He  was  about  to  put  on  the  stage  a farce  called  The  Orators^  in- 
tended as  a hit  at  the  Robin  Hood  debating-club,  and  resolved  to 
show  up  the  two  doctors  in  it  for  the  entertainment  of  the  town. 

“What  is  the  common  price  of  an  oak  stick,  sir?”  said  Johnson 
to  Davies.  “ Sixpence,”  was  the  reply.  “ Why  then,  sir,  give  me 
leave  to  send  your  servant  to  purchase  a shilling  one.  I’ll  have 
a double  quantity,  for  I am  told  Foote  means  to  take  me  off  as 
he  calls  it,  and  I am  determined  the  fellow  shall  not  do  it  with 
impunity.” 

Foote  had  no  disposition  to  undergo  the  criticism  of  the  cudgel 
wielded  by  such  potent  hands,  so  the  farce  of  The  Orators  ap- 
peared without  the  caricatures  of  the  lexicographer  and  the 
essayist. 


CHAPTER  XIIL 

Notwithstanding  his  growing  success.  Goldsmith  continued 
to  consider  literature  a mere  makeshift,  and  his  vagrant  imagina- 
tion teemed  with  schemes  and  plans  of  a grand  but  indefinite  na- 
ture. One  was  for  visiting  the  East  and  exploring  the  interior  of 
Asia.  He  had,  as  has  been  before  observed,  a vague  notion  that 
valuable  discoveries  were  to  be  made  there,  and  many  useful  in- 
ventions in  the  arts  brought  back  to  the  stock  of  European  knowl- 
edge. “Thus,  in  Siberian  Tartary,”  observed  he,  in  one  of  his 
writings,  “ the  natives  extract  a strong  spirit  from  milk,  which  is 
a secret  probably  unknown  to  the  chemists  of  Europe.  In  the 
most  savage  parts  of  India  they  are  possessed  of  the  secret  of  dye- 
ing vegetable  substances  scarlet,  and  that  of  refining  lead  into 
a metal  which,  for  hardness  and  color,  is  little  inferior  to  silver.” 
Goldsmith  adds  a description  of  the  kind  of  person  suited  to 
such  an  enterprise,  in  which  he  evidently  had  himself  in  view. 


LITEUABY  JOBS. 


99 


“ He  should  be  a man  of  philosophical  turn,  one  apt  to  deduce  con- 
secpiences  of  general  utility  from  particular  occurrences ; neither 
swoln  with  pride,  nor  hardened  by  prejudice  ; neither  wedded  to  one 
particular  system,  nor  instructed  only  in  one  particular  science ; 
neither  wholly  a botanist,  nor  quite  an  antiquarian  ; his  mind  should 
be  tinctured  with  miscellaneous  knowledge,  and  his  manners  human- 
ized by  an  intercourse  with  men.  He  should  be  in  some  measure  an 
enthusiast  to  the  design  ; fond  of  travelling,  from  a rapid  imagination 
and  an  innate  love  of  change  ; furnished  with  a body  capable  of  sus- 
taining every  fatigue,  and  a heart  not  easily  terrified  at  danger.” 

In  1761,  when  Lord  Bute  became  prime  minister  on  the  ac- 
cession of  George  the  Third,  Goldsmith  drew  up  a memorial  on 
the  subject,  suggesting  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  a mis- 
sion to  those  countries  solely  for  useful  and  scientific  purposes ; 
and,  the  better  to  insure  success,  he  preceded  his  application  to 
the  government  by  an  ingenious  essay  to  the  same  effect  in  the 
Public  Ledger. 

His  memorial  and  his  essay  were  fruitless,  his  project  most 
probably  being  deemed  the  dream  of  a visionary.  Still  it  contin- 
ued to  haunt  his  mind,  and  he  would  often  talk  of  making  an 
expedition  to  Aleppo  some  time  or  other,  when  his  means  were 
greater,  to  inquire  into  the  arts  peculiar  to  the  East,  and  to  bring 
home  such  as  might  be  valuable,  Johnson,  who  knew  how  little 
poor  Goldsmith  was  fitted  by  scientific  lore  for  this  favorite 
scheme  of  his  fancy,  scoffed  at  the  project  when  it  was  mentioned 
to  him.  “ Of  all  men,”  said  he,  “ Goldsmith  is  the  most  unfit  to 
go  out  upon  such  an  inquiry,  for  he  is  utterly  ignorant  of  such  arts 
as  we  already  possess,  and,  consequently,  could  not  know  what  would 
be  accessions  to  our  present  stock  of  mechanical  knowledge.  Sir,  he 
would  bring  home  a grinding-barrow,  wliieh  you  see  in  every  street  in 
London,  and  think  that  he  had  furnished  a wonderful  improvement.” 

His  connection  with  Newbery  the  bookseller  now  led  him  into 
a variety  of  temporary  jobs,  such  as  a pamphlet  on  the  Cock- 
Lane  Ghost,  a Life  of  Beau  Nash,  the  famous  Master  of  Ceremo- 
nies at  Bath,  etc.  : one  of  the  best  things  for  bis  fame,  however, 
was  the  remodelling  and  republication  of  his  ‘‘  Chinese  Letters  ” 


100 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


under  the  title  of  The  Citizen  of  the  Worlf  a work  which  has 
long  since  taken  its  merited  stand  among  the  classics  of  the  Eng- 
lish language.  “ Few  works,”  it  has  been  observed  by  one  of  his 
biographers,  ‘‘exhibit  a nicer  perception,  or  more  delicate  delinea- 
tion of  life  and  manners.  Wit,  humor,  and  sentiment  pervade 
every  page ; the  vices  and  follies  of  the  day  are  touched  with  tlie 
most  playful  and  diverting  satire ; and  English  characteristics,  in 
endless  variety,  are  hit  off  with  the  pencil  of  a master.” 

In  seeking  materials  for  his  varied  views  of  life,  he  often 
mingled  in  strange  scenes  and  got  involved  in  whimsical  situations. 
In  the  summer  of  1762  he  was  one  of  the  thousands  who  went  to 
see  the  Cherokee  chiefs,  whom  he  mentions  in  one  of  his  writings. 
The  Indians  made  their  appearance  in  grand  costume,  hideously 
painted  and  besmeared.  In  the  course  of  the  visit  Goldsmith 
made  one  of  the  chiefs  a present,  who,  in  the  ecstasy  of  his  grati- 
tude, gave  him  an  embrace  that  left  his  face  well  bedaubed  with 
oil  and  red  ochre. 

Towards  the  close  of  1762  he  removed  to  “merry  Islington,” 
then  a country  village,  though  now  swallowed  up  in  omnivorous 
London.  He  went  there  for  the  benefit  of  country  air,  his  health 
being  injured  by  literary  application  and  confinement,  and  to  be 
near  his  chief  employer,  Mr.  Newbery,  who  resided  in  the  Can- 
onbury  House.  In  this  neighborhood  he  used  to  take  his  solitary 
rambles,  sometimes  extending  his  walks  to  the  gardens  of  the 
“White  Conduit  House,”  so  famous  among  the  essayists  of  the 
last  century.  While  strolling  one  day  in  these  gardens,  he  mei. 
three  females  of  the  family  of  a respectable  tradesman  to  whom 
he  was  under  some  obligation.  With  his  prompt  disposition  to 
oblige,  he  conducted  them  about  the  garden,  treated  them  to  tea, 
and  ran  up  a bill  in  the  most  open-handed  manner  imaginable ; 
it  was  only  when  he  came  to  pay  that  he  found  himself  in  one 
of  his  old  dilemmas — -he  had  not  the  wherewithal  in  his  pocket.. 
A scene  of  perplexity  now  took  place  between  him  and  the  waiter,, 
in  the  midst  of  which  came  up  some  of  his  acquaintances,  in  whose 
eyes  he  wished  to  stand  particularly  well  This  completed  his 


LETTERS  ON  THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND.  101 


mortification.  There  was  no  concealing  the  awkwardness  of  his 
position.  The  sneers  of  the  waiter  revealed  it.  His  acquaintances 
amused  themselves  for  some  time  at  his  expense,  professing  their 
inability  to  relieve  him.  When,  however,  they  had  enjoyed  their 
banter,  the  waiter  was  paid,  and  poor  Goldsmith  enabled  to  con- 
voy off  the  ladies  with  flying  colors. 

Among  the  various  productions  thrown  off*  by  him  for  the 
booksellers  during  this  growing  period  of  his  reputation,  was  a 
small  work  in  two  volumes,  entitled  The  History  of  England^  in 
a Series  of  Letters  from  a Nobleman  to  his  Son.  It  was 
digested  from  Hume,  Rapin,  Carte,  and-  Kennet.  These  authors 
he  would  read  in  the  morning ; make  a few  notes  ; ramble  with  a 
friend  into  the  country  about  the  skirts  of  “ merry  Islington  ’’ ; 
return  to  a temperate  dinner  and  cheerful  evening  ; and,  before 
going  to  bed,  write  off*  what  had  arranged  itself  in  his  head  from 
the  studies  of  the  morning.  In  this  way  he  took  a more  general 
view  of  the  subject,  and  wrote  in  a more  free  and  fluent  style  than 
if  he  had  been  mousing  at  the  time  among  authorities.  The  work, 
like  many  others  written  by  him  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  literary 
career,  was  anonymous.  Some  attributed  it  to  Lord  Chesterfield, 
others  to  Lord  Orrery,  and  others  to  Lord  Lyttelton.  The  latter 
seemed  pleased  to  be  the  putative  father,  and  never  disowned  the 
bantling  thus  laid  at  his  door ; and  well  might  he  have  been  proud 
to  be  considered  capable  of  producing  what  has  been  well-pro- 
nounced the  most  finished  and  elegant  summary  of  English 
history  in  the  same  compass  that  has  been  or  is  likely  to  be 
written.’’ 

The  reputation  of  Goldsmith,  it  will  be  perceived,  grew  slowly ; 
he  was  known  and  estimated  by  a few;  but  he  had  not  those 
brilliant  though  fallacious  qualities  which  flash  upon  the  public, 
and  excite  loud  but  transient  applause.  His  works  were  more 
read  than  cited ; and  the  charm  of  style,  for  which  he  was  espe- 
cially noted,  was  more  apt  to  be  felt  than  talked  about.  He  used 
often  to  repine,  in  a half  humorous,  half  querulous  manner,  at  his 
tardiness  in  gaining  the  laurels  which  he  felt  to  be  his  due.  “ The 


102 


OJAVKR  GOLDSMITH. 


public/’  lie  would  exclaim,  “will  never  do  me  justice;  whenever  I 
write  anything,  they  make  a point  to  know  nothing  about  it.” 

About  the  beginning  of  1763  he  became  acquainted  with  Bos- 
well, whose  literary  gossipings  were  destined  to  have  a deleterious 
effect  upon  his  reputation.  Boswell  was  at  that  time  a young 
man,  light,  buoyant,  pushing,  and  presumptuous.  He  had  a mor- 
bid passion  for  mingling  in  the  society  of  men  noted  for  wit  and 
learning,  and  had  just  arrived  from  Scotland,  bent  upon  making 
his  way  into  the  literary  circles  of  the  metropolis.  An  intimacy 
with  Dr.  Johnson,  the  great  literary  luminary  of  the  day,  was  the 
crowning  object  of  his  aspiring  and  somewhat  ludicrous  ambition. 
He  expected  to  meet  him  at  a dinner  to  which  he  was  invited  at 
Davies  the  bookseller’s,  but  was  disappointed.  Goldsmith  was 
present,  but  he  was  not  as  yet  sufficiently  renowned  to  excite  the 
reverence  of  Boswell.  “At  this  time,”  says  he  in  his  Notes,  “I 
think  he  had  published  nothing  with  his  name,  though  it  was 
pretty  generally  understood  that  one  Dr.  Goldsmith  was  the 
author  of  An  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning 
in  Europe.,  and  of  The  Citizen  of  the  World,  a series  of  letters 
supposed  to  be  written  from  London  by  a Chinese.” 

A conversation  took  place  at  table  between  Goldsmith  and  Mr. 
Robert  Dodsley,  compiler  of  the  well-known  collection  of  modern 
poetry,  as  to  the  merits  of  the  current  poetry  of  the  day.  Gold- 
smith declared  there  was  none  of  superior  merit.  Dodsley  cited 
his  own  collection  in  proof  of  the  contrary.  “It  is  true,”  said  he, 
“we  can  boast  of  no  palaces  nowadays,  like  Dryden’s  Ode  to  St. 
Cecilia^ s Day,  but  we  have  villages  composed  of  very  pretty 
houses.”  Goldsmith,  however,  maintained  that  there  was  nothing 
above  mediocrity,  an  opinion  in  which  Johnson,  to  whom  it  was 
repeated,  concurred,  and  with  reason,  for  the  era  was  one  of  the 
dead  levels  of  British  poetry. 

Boswell  has  made  no  note  of  this  conversation ; he  was  an  Uni- 
tarian in  his  literary  devotion,  and  disposed  to  worship  none  but 
Johnson.  Little  Davies  endeavored  to  console  him  for  his  dis- 
appointment, and  to  stay  the  stomach  of  liis  curiosity,  by  giving 


JA  MES  B O 8 WELL, 


103 

him  imitations  of  the  great  lexicographer ; mouthing  his  words, 
rolling  his  head,  and  assuming  as  ponderous  a manner  as  his  petty 
person  would  permit.  Boswell  was  shortly  afterwards  made 
happy  by  an  introduction  to  Johnson,  of  whom  he  became  the 
obsequious  satellite.  From  him  he  likewise  imbibed  a more  favor- 
able opinion  of  Goldsmith’s  merits,  though  he  was  fain  to  consider 
them  derived  in  a great  measure  from  his  Magnus  Apollo.  ‘‘  He 
had  sagacity  enough,”  says  he,  “ to  cultivate  assiduously  the  ac- 
quaintance of  Johnson,  and  his  faculties  were  gradually  enlarged 
by  the  contemplation  of  such  a model.  To  me  and  many  others  it 
appeared  that  he  studiously  copied  the  manner  of  Johnson, 
though,  indeed,  upon  a smaller  scale.”  So  on  another  occasion 
he  calls  him  “one  of  the  brightest  ornaments  of  the  Johnsonian 
school.”  “His  respectful  attachment  to  Johnson,”  adds  he,  “was 
then  at  its  height ; for  his  own  literary  reputation  had  not  yet 
distinguished  him  so  much  as.  to  excite  a vain  desire  of  competi- 
tion with  his  great  master.” 

What  beautiful  instances  does  the  garrulous  Boswell  give  of  the 
goodness  of  heart  of  Johnson,  and  the  passing  homage  to  it  by 
Goldsmith.  They  were  speaking  of  a Mr.  Levett,  long  an  inmate 
of  Johnson’s  house  and  a dependent  on  his  bounty ; but  who,  Bos- 
well thought,  must  be  an  irksome  charge  upon  him.  “ He  is  poor 
and  honest,”  said  Goldsmith,  “ which  is  recommendation  enough  to 
Johnson.” 

Boswell  mentioned  another  person  of  a very  bad  character,  and 
wondered  at  Johnson’s  kindness  to  him.  “ He  is  now  become 
miserable,”  said  Goldsmith,  “an<l  that  insures  the  protection  of 
Johnson.”  Encomiums  like  these  speak  almost  as  much  for  the 
heart  of  him  who  praises  as  of  him  who  is  praised. 

Subsequently,  when  Boswell  had  become  more  intense  in  his 
literary  idolatry,  he  affected  to  undervalue  Goldsmith,  and  a lurk- 
ing hostility  to  him  is  discernible  throughout  his  writings,  which 
some  have  attributed  to  a silly  spirit  of  jealousy  of  the  superior 
esteem  evinced  for  the  poet  by  Dr.  Johnson.  We  have  a gleam  of 
this  in  his  account  of  the  first  evening  he  spent  in  company  with 


104 


OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH. 


those  two  eminent  authors  at  their  famous  resort,  the  Mitre 
Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street.  This  took  place  on  the  1st  of  July, 
1763.  The  trio  supped  together,  and  passed  some  time  in  lit- 
erary conversation.  On  quitting  the  tavern,  Johnson,  who  had 
now  been  sociably  acquainted  with  Goldsmith  for  two  years,  and 
knew  his  merits,  took  him  with  him  to  drink  tea  with  his.  blind 
pensioner,  Miss  Williams,- — a high  privilege  among  his  intimates 
and  admirers.  To  Boswell,  a recent  acquaintance,  whose  in- 
trusive sycophancy  had  not  yet  made  its  way  into  his  confiden- 
tial intimacy,  he  gave  no  invitation.  Boswell  felt  it  with  all 
the  jealousy  of  a little  mind.  ‘‘Dr.  Goldsmith,’’  says  he,  in 
his  Memoirs,  “being  a privileged  man,  went  with  him,  strut- 
ting away,  and  calling  to  me  with  an  air  of  superiority,  like 
that  of  an  esoteric  over  an  exoteric  disciple  of  a sage  of  antiquity, 
‘ I go  to  Miss  Williams.’  I confess  I then  envied  him  this  mighty 
privilege,  of  which  he  seemed  to  be  so  proud ; but  it  was  not  long 
before  I obtained  the  same  mark  of  distinction.” 

Obtained  ! but  how  ? not  like  Goldsmith,  by  the  force  of  unpre- 
tending but  congenial  merit,  but  by  a course  of  the  most  pushing, 
contriving,  and  spaniel-like  subserviency.  Really,  the  ambition 
of  the  man  to  illustrate  his  mental  insignificance,  by  continually 
placing  himself  in  juxtaposition  with  the  great  lexicographer,  has 
something  in  it  perfectly  ludicrous.  Never,  since  the  days  of  Don 
Quixote  and  Sancho  Panza,  has  there  been  presented  to  the  world 
a more  whimsically  contrasted  pair  of  associates  than  Johnson  and 
Boswell. 

“Who  is  this  Scotch  cur  at  Johnson’s  heels?”  asked  some  one 
when  Boswell  had  worked  his  way  into  incessant  companionship. 
“He  is  not  a cur,”  replied  Goldsmith,  “you  are  too  severe;  he  is 
only  a bur.  Tom  Davies  flung  him  at  Johnson  in  sport,  and  he 
has  the  faculty  of  sticking.” 


HOGARTH. 


105 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Among  the  intimates  who  used  to  visit  the  poet  occasionally 
in  his  retreat  at  Islington,  was  Hogarth  the  painter.  Goldsmith 
had  spoken  well  of  him  in  his  essays  in  the  Public  Ledger^  and 
this  formed  the  first  link  in  their  friendship.  He  was  at  this 
time  upwards  of  sixty  years  of  age,  and  is  described  as  a stout, 
active,  bustling  little  man,  in  a sky-blue  coat,  satirical  and  dog- 
matic, yet  full  of  real  benevolence  and  the  love  of  human  nature. 
He  was  the  moralist  and  philosopher  of  the  pencil ; like  Gold- 
smith he  had  sounded  the  depths  of  vice  and  misery,  without 
being  polluted  by  them ; and  though  his  picturings  had  not  the 
pervading  amenity  of  those  of  the  essayist,  and  dwelt  more  on  the 
crimes  and  vices  than  the  follies  and  humors  of  mankind,  yet  they 
were  all  calculated,  in  like  manner,  to  fill  the  mind  with  instruc- 
tion and  precept,  and  to  make  the  heart  better. 

Hogarth  does  not  appear  to  have  had  much  of  the  rural  feeling 
with  which  Goldsmith  was  so  amply  endowed,  and  may  not  have 
accompanied  him  in  his  strolls  about  hedges  and  green  lanes ; but 
he  was  a fit  companion  with  whom  to  explore  the  mazes  of 
London,  in  which  he  was  continually  on  the  lookout  for  character 
and  incident.  One  of  Hogarth’s. admirers  speaks  of  having  come 
upon  him  in  Castle  Street,  engaged  in  one  of  his  street-studies, 
watching  two  boys  who  were  quarrelling;  patting  one  on  the 
back  who  flinched,  and  endeavoring  to  spirit  him  up  to  a fresh 

encounter.  ‘‘At  him  again!  D him,  if  I would  take  it 

of  him  1 At  him  again  1 ” 

A frail  memorial  of  this  intimacy  between  the  painter  and  the 
poet  exists  in  a portrait  in  oil,  called  “Goldsmith’s  Hostess.”  It 
is  supposed  to  have  been  painted  by  Hogarth  in  the  course  of  his 
visits  to  Islington,  and  given  by  him  to  the  poet  as  a means  of 
paying  his  landlady.  There  are  no  friendships  among  men  of 
talents  more  likely  to  be  sincere  than  those  between  painters  and 
poets.  Possessed  of  the  same  qualities  of  mind,  governed  by  the 


106 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


same  principles  of  taste  and  natural  laws  of  grace  and  beauty,  but 
applying  them  to  different  yet  mutually  illustrative  arts,  they  are 
constantly  in  sympathy,  and  never  in  collision  with  each  other. 

A still  more  congenial  intimacy  of  the  kind  was  that  contracted 
by  Goldsmith  with  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir  Joshua)  Reynolds.  The 
latter  was  now  about  forty  years  of  age,  a few  years  older  than 
the  poet,  whom  he  charmed  by  the  blandness  and  benignity  of  his 
manners,  and  the  nobleness  and  generosity  of  his  disposition,  as 
much  as  he  did  by  the  graces  of  his  pencil  and  the  magic  of  his 
coloring.  They  were  men  of  kindred  genius,  excelling  in  corre- 
sponding qualities  of  their  several  arts,  for  style  in  writing  is 
what  color  is  in  painting;  both  are  innate  endowments,  and 
equally  magical  in  their  effects.  Certain  graces  and  harmonies 
of  both  may  be  acquired  by  diligent  study  and  imitation,  but  only 
in  a limited  degree ; whereas  by  their  natural  possessors  they  are 
exercised  spontaneously,  almost  unconsciously,  and  with  ever- vary- 
ing fascination.  Reynolds  soon  understood  and  appreciated  the 
merits  of  Goldsmith,  and  a sincere  and  lasting  friendship  ensued 
between  them. 

At  Reynolds’s  house  Goldsmith  mingled  in  a higher  range  of 
company  than  he  had  been  accustomed  to.  The  fame  of  this 
celebrated  artist,  and  his  amenity  of  manners,  were  gathering 
round  him  men  of  talents  of  all  kinds,  and  the  increasing  affluence 
of  his  circumstances  enabled  him  to  give  full  indulgence  to  his 
hospitable  disposition.  Poor  Goldsmith  had  not  yet,  like  Dr. 
Johnson,  acquired  reputation  enough  to  atone  for  his  external  de- 
fects and  his  want  of  the  air  of  good  society.  Miss  Reynolds  used 
to  inveigh  against  his  personal  appearance,  which  gave  her  the 
idea,  she  said,  of  a low  mechanic,  a journeyman  tailor.  One  even- 
ing at  a large  supper-party,  being  called  upon  to  give  as  a toast 
the  ugliest  man  she  knew,  she  gave  Dr.  Goldsmith,  upon  which  a 
lady  who  sat  opposite,  and  whom  she  had  never  met  before,  shook 
hands  with  her  across  the  table,  and  “ hoped  to  become  better 
acquainted.’^ 

We  have  a graphic  and  amusing  picture  of  Reynolds’s  hospi- 


SIE  JOSHUA  llEYNOLDS, 


107 


table  but  motley  establishment,  in  an  account  given  by  a Mr 
Courtenay  to  Sir  James  Mackintosh;  though  it  speaks  of  a time 
after  Reynolds  had  received  the  honor  of  knighthood.  “ There 
was  something  singular,”  said  he,  ‘‘in  the  style  and  economy  of 
Sir  Joshua’s  table  that  contributed  to  pleasantry  and  good-humor, 
— a coarse,  inelegant  plenty,  without  any  regard  to  order  and 
arrangement.  At  five  o’clock  precisely,  dinner  was  served,  whether 
all  the  invited  guests  had  arrived  or  not.  Sir  Joshua  was  never 
so  fashionably  ill-bred  as  to  wait  an  hour  perhaps  for  two  or  three' 
])ersons  of  rank  or  title,  and  put  the  rest  of  the  company  out  of 
humor  by  this  invidious  distinction.  His  invitations,  however, 
did  not  regulate  the  number  of  his  guests.  Many  dropped  in 
uninvited.  A table  prepared  for  seven  or  eight  was  often  com- 
pelled to  contain  fifteen  or  sixteen.  There  was  a consequent 
deficiency  of  knives,  forks,  plates,  and  glasses.  The  attendance 
was  in  the  same  style,  and  those  who  were  knowing  in  the  ways 
of  the  house  took  care  on  sitting  down  to  call  instantly  for  beer, 
bread,  or  wine,  that  they  might  secure  a supply  before  the  first 
course  was  over.  He  was  once  prevailed  on  to  furnish  the  table 
with  decanters  and  glasses  at  dinner,  to  save  time  and  prevent 
confusion.  These  gradually  were  demolished  in  the  course  of 
service,  and  were  never  replaced.  These  trifling  embarrassments, 
however,  only  served  to  enhance  the  hilarity  and  singular  pleasure 
of  the  entertainment.  The  wine,  cookery,  and  dishes  were  but 
little  attended  to ; nor  was  the  fish  or  venison  ever  talked  of  or 
recommended.  Amidst  this  convivial  animated  bustle  among  his 
guests,  our  host  sat  perfectly  composed ; always  attentive  to 
what  was  said,  never  minding  what  was  ate  or  drank,  but  left 
every  one  at  perfect  liberty  to  scramble  for  himself.” 

Out  of  the  casual  but  frequent  meeting  of  men  of  talent  at  this 
hospitable  board  rose  that  association  of  wits,  authors,  scholars, 
and  statesmen,  renowned  as  the  Literary  Club.  Reynolds  was 
the  first  to  propose  a regular  association  of  the  kind,  and  was 
eagerly  seconded  by  Johnson,  who  proposed  as  a model  a club 
which  he  had  formed  many  years  previously  in  Ivy-Lane,  but 


108 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


which  was  now  extinct.  Like  that  club  the  number  of  members 
was  limited  to  nine.  They  were  to  meet  and  sup  together  once 
a week,  on  Monday  night,  at  the  Turk’s  Head  on  Gerard  Street, 
Soho,  and  two  members  were  to  constitute  a meeting.  It  took  a 
regular  form  in  the  year  1764,  but  did  not  receive  its  literary 
appellation  until  several  years  afterwards. 

The  original  members  were  Eeynolds,  Johnson,  Burke,  Dr. 
Nugent,  Bennet  Langton,  Topham  Beauclerc,  Chamier,  Hawkins, 
and  Goldsmith ; and  here  a few  words  concerning  some  of  the 
members  may  be  acceptable.  Burke  was  at  that  time  about 
thirty-three  years  of  age ; he  had  mingled  a little  in  politics  and 
been  Under-Secretary  to  Hamilton  at  Dublin,  but  was  again  a 
writer  for  the  booksellers,  and  as  yet  but  in  the  dawning  of  his 
fame.  Dr.  Nugent  was  his  father-in-law,  a Koman  Catholic,  and 
a physician  of  talent  and  instruction.  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir  John) 
Hawkins  was  admitted  into  this  association  from  having  been  a 
member  of  Johnson’s  Ivy-Lane  club.  Originally  an  attorney,  he 
had  retired  from  the  practice  of  the  law,  in  consequence  of  a large 
fortune  which  fell  to  him  in  right  of  his  wife,  and  was  now  a 
Middlesex  magistrate.  He  was,  moreover,  a dabbler  in  literature 
and  music,  and  was  actually  engaged  on  a history  of  music,  which 
he  subsequently  published  in  five  ponderous  volumes.  To  him 
we  are  also  indebted  for  a biography  of  Johnson,  which  appeared 
after  the  death  of  that  eminent  man.  Hawkins  was  as  mean  and 
parsimonious  as  he  was  pompous  and  conceited.  He  forbore  to 
partake  of  the  suppers  at  the  club,  and  begged  therefore  to  be 
excused  from  paying  his  share  of  the  reckoning.  “And  was  he 
excused?”  asked  Dr.  Burney  of  Johnson.  “Oh,  yes,  for  no  man 
is  angry  with  another  for  being  inferior  to  himself.  We  all 
scorned  him  and  admitted  his  plea.  Yet  I really  believe  him  to 
be  an  honest  man  at  bottom,  though  to  be  sure  he  is  penurious, 
and  he  is  mean,  and  it  must  be  owned  he  has  a tendency  to 
savageness.”  He  did  not  remain  above  two  or  three  years  in  the 
club ; being  in  a manner  elbowed  out  in  consequence  of  his 
rudeness  to  Burke. 


LANGTON  AND  BEAUCLERC, 


109 


Mr.  Antljoiiy  Chamier  was  Secretary  in  the  war-office,  and  a 
friend  to  Beauclerc,  by  wffiom  he  was  proposed.  We  have  left 
our  mention  of  Bennet  Langton  and  Topham  Beauclerc  until  the 
last,  because  we  have  most  to  say  about  them.  They  were  doubt- 
less induced  to  join  the  club  through  their  devotion  to  Johnson, 
and  the  intimacy  of  these  two  very  young  and  aristocratic  men 
with  the  stern  and  somewhat  melancholy  moralist  is  among  the 
curiosities  of  literature. 

Bennet  Langton  was  of  an  ancient  family,  who  held  their 
ancestral  estate  of  Langton  in  Lincolnshire,  — a great  title  to 
respect  with  Johnson.  “Langton,  sir,’’  he  would  say,  “has  a 
grant  of  free-warren  from  Henry  the  Second ; and  Cardinal 
Stephen  Langton,  in  King  John’s  reign,  was  of  this  family.” 

Langton  was  of  a mild,  contemplative^  enthusiastic  nature. 
When  but  eighteen  years  of  age  he  was  so  delighted  with  reading 
Johnson’s  Rambler^  that  he  came  to  London  chiefly  with  a view 
to  obtain  an  introduction  to  the  author.  Boswell  gives  us  an 
account  of  his  first  interview,  which  took  place  in  the  morning. 
It  is  not  often  that  the  personal  appearance  of  an  author  agrees 
with  the  preconceived  ideas  of  his  admirer.  Langton,  from  perus- 
ing the  writings  of  Johnson,  expected  to  find  him  a decent, 
well-dressed,  in  short  a remarkably  decorous  philosopher.  Instead 
of  which,  down  from  Ids  bedchamber  about  noon,  came,  as  newly 
risen,  a large  uncouth  figure,  with  a little  dark  wig  which 
scarcely  covered  his  head,  and  his  clothes  hanging  loose  about 
him.  But  his  conversation  was  so  rich,  so  animated,  and  so 
forcible,  and  his  religious  and  political  notions  so  congenial  with 
those  in  which  Langton  had  been  educated,  that  he  conceived 
for  him  that  veneration  and  attachment  which  he  ever  pre 
served. 

Langton  went  to  pursue  his  studies  at  Trinity  College,  Oxford, 
where  Johnson  saw  much  of  him  during  a visit  which  he  paid  to 
the  University.  He  found  him  in  close  intimacy  with  Topham 
Beauclerc,  a youth  two  years  older  than  himself,  very  gay  and  dis- 
sipated, and  wondered  what  sympathies  could  draw  two  young 


110 


OLl  VEH  G OLD  SMITH. 


men  together  of  such  opposite  characters.  On  becoming  ac- 
quainted with  Beauclerc  he  found  that,  rake  though  he  was,  he 
possessed  an  ardent  love  of  literature,  an  acute  understanding, 
polished  wit,  innate  gentility,  and  high  aristocratic  breeding.  He 
was,  moreover,  the  only  son  of  Lord  Sidney  Beauclerc  and  grand- 
son of  the  Duke  of  St.  Albans,  and  was  thought  in  some  particu- 
lars to  have  a resemblance  to  Charles  the  Second.  These  were 
high  recommendations  with  Johnson;  and  when  the  youth  testified 
a profound  respect  for  him  and  an  aixlent  admiration  of  his  talents, 
the  conquest  was  complete,  so  that  in  a ‘‘short  time,’’  says  Bos- 
well, “ the  moral  pious  Johnson  and  the  gay  dissipated  Beauclerc 
were  companions.” 

The  intimacy  begun  in  college  chambers  was  continued  when 
the  youths  came  to  town  during  the  vacations.  The  uncouth,  un- 
wieldy moralist  was  flattered  at  finding  himself  an  object  of  idol- 
atry to  two  liigh-born,  high-bred,  aristocratic  young  men,  and 
throwing  gravity  aside,  was  ready  to  join  in  their  vagaries  and 
play  the  part  of  a “young  man  upon  town.”  Such  at  least  is  the 
picture  given  of  him  by  Boswell  on  one  occasion  when  Beauclerc 
and  Langton,  having  supped  together  at  a tavern,  determined 
to  give  Johnson  a rouse  at  three  o’clock  in  the  morning.  They 
accordingly  rapped  violently  at  the  door  of  his  chambers  in  the 
Temple.  The  indignant  sage  sallied  forth  in  his  shirt,  poker  in 
hand,  and  a little  black  wig  on  the  top  of  his  head,  instead  of  hel- 
met ; prepared  to  wreak  vengeance  on  the  assailants  of  his  castle ; 
but  when  his  two  young  friends  Lanky  and  Beau^  as  he  used  to 
call  them,  presented  themselves,  summoning  him  forth  to  a morn- 
ing ramble,  his  whole  manner  changed.  “ What,  is  it  you,  ye 
dogs'?  ” cried  he.  “ Faith,  I’ll  have  a frisk  with  you  ! ” 

So  said  so  done.  They  sallied  forth  together  into  Oovent  Gar- 
den ; figured  among  the  green-grocers  and  fruit-women,  just  come 
in  from  the  country  with  their  hampers ; repaired  to  a neighbor- 
ing tavern,  where  Johnson  brewed  a bowl  of  bishop,  a favorite 
beverage  with  him,  grew  merry  over  his  cups,  and  anathematized 
sleep  in  two  lines,  from  Lord  Lansdowne’s  drinking  song 


FROLICS. 


Ill 


“ Short,  very  short,  he  then  thy  reign, 

For  I’m  in  haste  to  laugh  and  drink  again.” 

They  then  took  boat  again,  rowed  to  Billingsgate,  and  Johnson 
and  Beauclerc  determined,  like  “mad  wags,”  to  “keep  it  up”  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  Langton,  however,  the  most  sober-minded  of 
the  three,  pleaded  an  engagement  to  breakfast  with  some  young 
ladies  ; whereupon  the  great  moralist  reproached  him  with  “ leav- 
ing liis  social  friends  to  go  and  sit  with  a set  of  wretched  un-idea^d 
girls.” 

This  madcap  freak  of  the  great  lexicographer  made  a sensation, 
as  may  well  be  supposed,  among  his  intimates.  “ I heard  of  your 
frolic  t’other  night,”  said  Garrick  to  him  ; “ you’ll  be  in  the  Chron- 
icle.^^ He  uttered  worse  forebodings  to  others.  “ I shall  have  my 
old  friend  to  bail  out  of  the  round-house,”  said  he.  Johnson, 
however,  valued  himself  upon  having  thus  enacted  a chapter  in  the 
“ Rake’s  Progress,”  and  crowed  over  Garrick  on  the  occasion. 
“ He  durst  not  do  such  a thing  ! ” chuckled  he ; “ his  wife  would 
not  let  him  ! ” 

When  these  two  young  men  entered  the  club,  Langton  was 
about  twenty-two,  and  Beauclerc  about  twenty-four  years  of  age, 
and  both  were  launched  on  London  life.  Langton,  however,  was 
still  the  mild,  enthusiastic  scholar,  steeped  to  the  lips  in  Greek, 
with  fine  conversational  powers,  and  an  invaluable  talent  for  lis- 
tening. He  was  upwards  of  six  feet  high,  and  very  spare.  “Oh  1 
that  we  could  sketch  him,”  exclaims  Miss  Hawkins,  in  her  Me- 
moir “ with  his  mild  countenance,  his  elegant  features,  and  his 
sweet  smile,  sitting  with  one  leg  twisted  round  the  other,  as  if 
fearing  to  occupy  more  space  than  was  equitable ; his  person 
inclining  forward,  as  if  wanting  strength  to  support  his  weight, 
and  his  arms  crossed  over  his  bosom,  or  his  hands  locked  together 
on  his  knee.”  Beauclerc,  on  such  occasions,  sportively  compared 
him  to  a stork  in  Raphael’s  Cartoons,  standing  on  one  leg.  Beau- 
clerc was  more  a “man  upon  town,”  a lounger  in  St.  James’s 
Street,  an  associate  with  George  Selwyn,  with  Walpole,  and  other 
aristocratic  wits ; a man  of  fashion  at  court ; a casual  frequenter 


112 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


of  the  gaming-table ; yet,  with  all  this,  he  alternated  in  the 
easiest  and  happiest  manner  the  scholar  and  the  man  of  letters ; 
lounged  into  the  club  with  the  most  perfect  self-possession,  bring- 
ing with  him  the  careless  grace  and  polished  wit  of  high-bred  soci- 
ety, but  making  himself  cordially  at  home  among  his  learned 
feilow-members. 

The  gay  yet  lettered  rake  maintained  his  sway  over  Johnson, 
who  was  fascinated  by  that  air  of  the  world,  that  ineffable  tone  of 
good  society  in  which  he  felt  himself  deficient,  especially  as  the 
possessor  of  it  always  paid  homage  to  his  superior  talent.  ‘‘  Beau- 
clerc,’’  he  would  say,  using  a quotation  from  Pope,  “ has  a love  of 
folly,  but  a scorn  of  fools  ; everything  he  does  shows  the  one,  and 
everything  he  says,  the  other.’’  Beauclerc  delighted  in  rallying 
the  stern  moralist  of  whom  others  stood  in  awe,  and  no  one,  ac- 
cording to  Boswell,  could  take  equal  liberty  with  him.  with  impu- 
nity. Johnson,  it  is  well  known,  was  often  shabby  and  negligent 
in  his  dress,  and  not  over-cleanly  in  his  person.  On  receiving  a 
pension  from  the  crown,  his  friends  vied  with  each  other  in  respect- 
ful congratulations.  Beauclerc  simply  scanned  his  person  with  a 
whimsical  glance,  and  hoped  that,  like  Falstaff,  ‘‘  he’d  in  future 
purge  and  live  cleanly  like  a gentleman.”  Johnson  took  the  hint 
with  unexpected  good-humor,  and  profited  by  it. 

Still  Beauclerc’s  satirical  vein,  which  darted  shafts  on  every 
side,  was  not  always  tolerated  by  Johnson.  “ Sir,”  said  he  on  one 
occasion,  “you  never  open  your  mouth  but  with  intention  to  give 
pain  ; and  you  have  often  given  me  pain,  not  from  the  power  of 
what  you  have  said,  but  from  seeing  your  intention.” 

When  it  was  at  first  proposed  to  enroll  Goldsmith  among  the 
members  of  this  association,  there  seems  to  have  been  some 
demur;  at  least  so  says  the  pompous  Hawkins.  “As  he  wrote 
for  the  booksellers  we  of  the  club  looked  on  him  as  a mere  literary 
drudge,  equal  to  the  task  of  compiling  and  translating,  but  little 
capable  of  original  and  still  less  of  poetical  composition.” 

Even  for  some  time  after  his  admission  he  continued  to  be 
regarded  in  a dubious  light  by  some  of  the  members.  Johnson 


JOHNSON  A MONITOR. 


113 


and  Reynolds,  of  course,  were  well  aware  of  his  merits,  nor  was 
Burke  a stranger  to  them ; but  to  the  others  he  was  as  yet  a 
sealed  book,  and  the  outside  was  not  prepossessing.  His  ungainly 
person  and  awkward  manners  were  against  him  with  men  accus- 
tomed to  the  graces  of  society,  and  he  was  not  sufficiently  at  home 
to  give  play  to  his  humor  and  to  that  bonhomie  which  won  the 
hearts  of  all  who  knew  him.  He  felt  strange  and  out  of  place  in 
this  new  sphere  ; he  felt  at  times  the  cool  satirical  eye  of  the 
courtly  Beauclerc  scanning  him,  and  the  more  he  attempted  to 
appear  at  his  ease,  the  more  awkward  he  became. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

Johnson  had  now  become  one  of  Goldsmith’s  best  friends  and 
advisers.  He  knew  all  the  weak  points  of  his  character,  but  he 
knew  also  his  merits ; and  while  he  would  rebuke  him  like  a 
child,  and  rail  at  his  errors  and  follies,  he  would  suffer  no  one  else 
to  undervalue  him.  Goldsmith  knew  the  soundness  of  his  judg- 
ment and  his  practical  benevolence,  and  often  sought  his  counsel 
and  aid  amid  the  difficulties  into  which  his  heedlessness  was  con- 
tinually plunging  him. 

“ I received  one  morning,”  says  Johnson,  “ a message  from  poor 
Goldsmith  that  he  was  in  great  distress,  and,  as  it  was  not  in  his 
power  to  come  to  me,  begging  that  I would  come  to  him  as  soon 
as  possible.  I sent  him  a guinea,  and  promised  to  come  to  him 
directly.  I accordingly  went  as  soon  as  I was  dressed,  and  found 
that  his  landlady  had  arrested  him  for  his  rent,  at  which  he  was 
in  a violent  passion  : I perceived  that  he  had  already  changed 
my  guinea,  and  had  a bottle  of  Madeira  and  a glass  before  him. 
I put  the  cork  into  the  bottle,  desired  he  would  be  calm,  and  began 
to  talk  to  him  of  the  means  by  which  he  might  be  extricated. 
He  then  told  me  he  had  a novel  ready  for  the  press,  which  he  pro- 
duced to  me.  I looked  into  it  and  saw  its  merit ; told  the  land 


114 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


lady  I should  soon  return ; and,  having  gone  to  a bookseller,  sold 
it  for  sixty  pounds.  I brought  Goldsmith  the  money,  and  he  dis- 
charged his  rent,  not  without  rating  his  landlady  in  a high  tone 
for  having  used  him  so  ill.’’ 

The  novel  in  question  was  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield ; the  book- 
seller to  whom  Johnson  sold  it  was  Francis  Newbery,  nephew  to 
John.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  this  captivating  work,  which  has 
obtained  and  preserved  an  almost  unrivalled  popularity  in  various 
languages,  was  so  little  appreciated  by  the  bookseller,  that  he 
kept  it  by  him  for  nearly  two  years  unpublished  ! 

Goldsmith  had,  as  yet,  produced  nothing  of  moment  in  poetry. 
Among  his  literary  jobs,  it  is  true,  was  an  Oratorio  entitled  The 
Captivity.,  founded  on  the  bondage  of  the  Israelites  in  Babylon. 
It  was  one  of  those  unhappy  offsprings  of  the  Muse  ushered  into 
existence  amid  the  distortions  of  music.  Most  of  the  Oratorio  has 
passed  into  oblivion  ; but  the  following  song  from  it  will  never 
die. 

‘‘The  wretch  condemned  from  life  to  part. 

Still,  still  on  hope  relies, 

And  every  pang  that  rends  the  heart 
Bids  expectation  rise. 

“ Hope,  like  the  glimmering  taper’s  light, 

Illumes  and  cheers  our  way  ; 

And  still,  as  darker  grows  the  night, 

Emits  a brighter  ray.” 

Goldsmith  distrusted  his  qualifications  to  succeed  in  poetry,  and 
doubted  the  disposition  of  the  public  mind  in  regard  to  it.  “I 
fear,”  said  he,  “ I have  come  too  late  into  the  world ; Pope  and 
other  poets  have  taken  up  the  places  in  the  temple  of  Fame ; and 
as  few  at  any  period  can  possess  poetical  reputation,  a man  of 
genius  can  now  hardly  acquire  it.”  Again,  on  another  occasion, 
he  observes  : ‘‘Of  all  kinds  of  ambition,  as  things  are  now  circum- 
stanced, perhaps  that  which  pursues  poetical  fame  is  the  wildest. 
What  from  the  increased  refinement  of  the  times,  from  the  diver- 
sity of  judgment  produced  by  opposing  systems  of  criticisiUj  and 


^^TIIE  TUAVELLEll, 


115 


from  the  more  prevalent  divisions  of  opinion  influenced  by  party, 
the  strongest  and  happiest  efforts  can  expect  to  please  but  in  a 
very  narrow  circle.” 

At  this  very  time  he  had  by  him  his  poem  of  The  Traveller. 
The  plan  of  it,  as  has  already  been  observed,  was  conceived  many 
years  before,  during  his  travels  in  Switzerland,  and  a sketch  of  it 
sent  from  that  country  to  his  brother  Henry  in  Ireland.  The 
original  outline  is  said  to  have  embraced  a wider  scope ; but  it 
was  probably  contracted  through  diffidence,  in  the  process  of  fin- 
ishing the  parts.  It  had  laid  by  him  for  several  years  in  a crude 
state,  and  it  was  with  extreme  hesitation  and  after  much  revision 
that  he  at  length  submitted  it  to  Dr.  Johnson.  The  frank  and 
warm  approbation  of  the  latter  encouraged  him  to  finish  it  fur  the 
press ; and  Dr.  J ohnson  himself  contributed  a few  lines  towards  the 
conclusion. 

We  hear  much  about  ‘‘poetic  inspiration,”  and  the  “poet’s  eye 
in  a fine  phrensy  rolling ; ” but  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  gives  an 
anecdote  of  Goldsmith  while  engaged  upon  his  poem,  calculated  to 
cure  our  notions  about  the  ardor  of  composition.  Calling  upon 
the  poet  one  day,  he  opened  the  door  without  ceremony,  and  found 
him  in  the  double  occupation  of  turning  a couplet  and  teaching  a 
pet  dog  to  sit  upon  his  haunches.  At  one  time  he  would  glance 
his  eye  at  his  desk,  and  at  another  shake  his  finger  at  the  dog  to 
make  him  retain  his  position.  The  last  lines  on  the  page  were 
still  wet ; they  form  a part  of  the  description  of  Italy  : — 

“ By  sports  like  these  are  all  their  cares  beguiled, 

The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child.” 

Goldsmith,  with  his  usual  good-humor,  joined  in  the  laugh  caused 
by  his  whimsical  employment,  and  acknowledged  that  his  boyish 
sport  with  the  dog  suggested  the  stanza. 

The  poem  was  published  on  the  19th  of  December,  1764,  in  a 
quarto  form,  by  Newbery,  and  was  the  first  of  his  works  to  which 
Goldsmith  prefixed  his  name.  As  a testimony  of  cherished  and 
well-merited  affection,  he  dedicated  it  to  his  brother  Henry.  There 


116 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


is  an  amusing  affectation  of  indifference  as  to  its  fate  expressed  in 
the  dedication.  “What  reception  a poem  may  find,”  says  he, 
“which  has  neither  abuse,  party,  nor  blank  verse  to  support  it,  I 
cannot  tell,  nor  am  I solicitous  to  know.”  The  truth  is,  no  one 
was  more  emulous  and  anxious  for  poetic  fame ; and  never  was  he 
more  anxious  than  in  the  present  instance,  for  it  was  his  grand 
stake.  Mr.  Johnson  aided  the  launching  of  the  poem  by  a favor- 
able notice  in  the  Critical  Revieiv ; other  periodical  works  came 
out  in  its  favor.  Some  of  the  author’s  friends  complained  that  it 
did  not  command  instant  and  wide  popularity  ; that  it  was  a 
poem  to  win,  not  to  strike  : it  went  on  rapidly  increasing  in  favor; 
in  three  months  a second  edition  was  issued ; shortly  afterwards,  a 
third ; then  a fourth  ; and,  before  the  year  was  out,  the  author  ^vas 
pronounced  the  best  poet  of  his  time. 

The  appearance  of  The  Traveller  at  once  altered  Groldsmith’s 
intellectual  standing  in  the  estimation  of  society ; but  its  effect 
upon  the  club,  if  we  may  judge  from  the  account  given  by  Haw- 
kins, was  almost  ludicrous.  They  were  lost  in  astonishment  that 
a “ newspaper  essayist  ” and  “ bookseller’s  drudge  ” should  have 
written  such  a poem.  On  the  evening  of  its  announcement  to 
them  Goldsmith  had  gone  away  early,  after  “rattling  away  as 
usual,”  and  they  knew  not  how  to  reconcile  his  heedless  garrulity 
with  the  serene  beauty,  the  easy  grace,  the  sound  good  sense,  and 
the  occasional  elevation  of  his  poetry.  They  could  scarcely  believe 
that  such  magic  numbers  had  flowed  from  a man  to  whom  in  gen- 
eral, says  Johnson,  “ it  was  with  difficulty  they  could  give  a hear- 
ing.” “Well,”  exclaimed  Chamier,  “I  do  believe  he  wrote  this 
poem  himself,  and  let  me  tell  you,  that  is  believing  a great  deal.” 

At  the  next  meeting  of  the  club,  Chamier  sounded  the  author  a 
little  about  his  poem.  “Mr.  Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “what  do  you 
mean  by  the  last  word  in  the  first  line  of  your  Traveller,  ‘ Remote, 
unfriended,  melancholy,  dow  ’ I — do  you  mean  tardiness  of  loco- 
motion ? ” — “ Yes,”  replied  Goldsmith,  inconsiderately,  being  prob- 
ably flurried  at  the  moment.  “No,  sir,”  interposed  his  protecting 
friend  Johnson,  “you  did  not  mean  tardiness  of  locomotion;  you 


‘^TITE  TRAVELLER, 


117 


meant  that  sluggishness  of  mind  which  comes  upon  a man  in  soli- 
tude.’’— “Ah,”  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  '‘that  was  what  I meant.” 
Chamier  immediately  believed  that  Johnson  himself  had  written 
the  line,  and  a rumor  became  prevalent  that  he  was  the  author  of 
many  of  the  finest  passages.  This  was  ultimately  set  at  rest  by 
Johnson  himself,  who  marked  with  a pencil  all  the  verses  he  had 
contributed,  nine  in  number,  inserted  towards  the  conclusion,  and 
by  no  means  the  best  in  the  poem.  He  moreover,  with  generous 
warmth,  pronounced  it  the  finest  poem  that  had  appeared  since  the 
days  of  Pope. 

But  one  of  the  highest  testimonials  to  the  charm  of  the  poem 
was  given  by  Miss  Eeynolds,  who  had  toasted  poor  Goldsmith  as 
the  ugliest  man  of  her  acquaintance.  Shortly  after  the  appearance 
of  The  Traveller,  Dr.  Johnson  read  it  aloud  from  beginning  to 
end  in  her  presence.  “ Well,”  exclaimed  she,  when  he  had  finished, 
“ I never  more  shall  think  Dr.  Goldsmith  ugly  ! ” 

On  another  occasion,  when  the  merits  of  The  Traveller  were 
discussed  at  Reynolds’s  board,  Langton  declared  “ there  was  not  a 
bad  line  in  the  poem,  not  one  of  Dry  den’s  careless  verses.”  “ I 
was  glad,”  observed  Reynolds,  “to  hear  Charles  Fox  say  it  was 
one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  English  language.”  “ Why  were 
you  glad?”  rejoined  Langton,  “you  surely  had  no  doubt  of  this 
before.”  “ N’o,”  interposed  Johnson,  decisively ; “ the  merit  of 
The  Traveller  is  so  well  established,  that  Mr.  Fox’s  praise  cannot 
augment  it,  nor  his  censure  diminish  it.” 

Boswell,  who  was  absent  from  England  at  the  time  of  the  pub- 
lication of  the  Traveller,  was  astonished  on  his  return,  to  find 
Goldsmith,  whom  he  had  so  much  undervalued,  suddenly  elevated 
almost  to  a par  with  his  idol.  He  accounted  for  it  by  concluding 
that  much  both  of  the  sentiments  and  expression  of  the  poem  had 
been  derived  from  conversations  with  Johnson.  “ He  imitates 
you,  sir,”  said  this  incarnation  of  toadyism.  “ Why  no,  sir,” 
replied  Johnson,  “Jack  Hawksworth  is  one  of  my  imitators,  but 
not  Goldsmith.  Goldy,  sir,  has  great  merit.”  “ But,  sir,  he  is 
much  indebted  to  you  for  his  getting  so  high  in  the  public  estim^- 


118 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


tioii.”  “Why,  sir,  he  has,  perhaps,  got  sooner  to  it  by  his  in- 
timacy with  me.’^ 

The  poem  went  through  several  editions  in  the  course  of  the 
first  year,  and  received  some  few  additions  and  corrections  from 
the  author’s  pen.  It  produced  a golden  harvest  to  Mr.  ISTewbery ; 
but  all  the  remuneration  on  record,  doled  out  by  his  niggard  hand 
to  the  author,  was  twenty  guineas ! 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

Goldsmith,  now  that  he  was  rising  in  the  world,  and  becoming 
a notoriety,  felt  himself  called  upon  to  improve  his  style  of  living. 
He  accordingly  emerged  from  Wine-Office  Court,  and  took  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple.  It  is  true  they  were  but  of  humble  preten- 
sions, situated  on  what  was  then  the  library  staircase,  and  it 
would  appear  that  he  was  a kind  of  inmate  with  Jeffs,  the  butler 
of  the  society.  Still  he  was  in  the  Temple,  that  classic  region 
rendered  famous  by  the  Spectator  and  other  essayists  as  the  abode 
of  gay  wits  and  thoughtful  men  of  letters ; and  which,  with  its 
retired  courts  and  embowered  gardens,  in  the  very  heart  of  a 
noisy  metropolis,  is,  to  the  quiet-seeking  student  and  author,  an 
oasis  freshening  with  verdure  in  the  midst  of  a desert.  Johnson, 
who  had  become  a kind  of  growling  supervisor  of  the  poet’s  affairs, 
paid  him  a visit  soon  after  he  had  installed  himself  in  his  new 
quarters,  and  went  prying  about  the  apartment,  in  his  near-sighted 
manner,  examining  everything  minutely.  Goldsmith  was  fidgeted 
by  this  curious  scrutiny,  and  apprehending  a disposition  to  find 
fault,  exclaimed,  with  the  air  of  a man  who  had  money  in  both 
pockets,  “ I shall  soon  be  in  better  chambers  than  these.”  The 
harmless  bravado  drew  a reply  from  Johnson,  which  touched  the 
chord  of  proper  pride.  ^‘Nay,  sir,”  said  he,  “never  mind  that. 
Nil  te  qusesiveris  extra,”  — implying  that  his  reputation  rendered 
him  independent  of  outward  show.  Happy  would  it  have  been 
afor  poor  Goldsmith,  could  he  have  kept  this  consolatory  compli- 
fritent  perpetually  in  mind,  and  squared  his  expenses  accordingly. 


A TITLED  PATRON. 


119 


Among  the  persons  of  rank  who  were  struck  with  the  merits  of 
the  Traveller  was  the  Earl  (afterwards  Duke)  of  Northumberland. 
He  procured  several  other  of  Goldsmith’s  writings,  the  perusal  of 
which  tended  to  elevate  the  author  in  his  good  opinion,  and  to  gain 
for  him  his  good  will.  Tlie  Earl  held  the  office  of  Lord-Lieuten- 
ant of  Ireland,  and  understanding  Goldsmith  was  an  Irishman, 
was  disposed  to  extend  to  him  the  patronage  which  his  high  post 
afforded.  He  intimated  the  same  to  his  relative.  Dr.  Percy,  who, 
he  found,  was  well  acquainted  with  the  poet,  and  expressed  a 
wish  that  the  latter  should  wait  upon  him.  Here,  then,  was 
another  opportunity  for  Goldsmith  to  better  his  fortune,  had  he 
been  knowing  and  worldly  enough  to  profit  by  it.  Unluckily  the 
path  to  fortune  lay  through  the  aristocratical  mazes  of  Northum- 
berland House,  and  the  poet  blundered  at  the  outset.  The  follow- 
ing is  the  account  he  used  to  give  of  his  visit : I dressed  myself 

in  the  best  manner  I could,  and,  after  studying  some  compliments 
I thought  necessary  on  such  an  occasion,  proceeded  to  Northum- 
berland House,  and  acquainted  the  servants  that  I had  particular 
business  with  the  Duke.  They  showed  me  into  an  antechamber 
where,  after  waiting  some  time,  a gentleman,  very  elegantly 
dressed,  made  his  appearance : taking  him  for  the  Duke,  I de- 
livered all  the  fine  things  I had  composed  in  order  to  compliment 
him  on  the  honor  he  had  done  me  j when,  to  my  great  astonish- 
ment, he  told  me  I had  mistaken  him  for  his  master,  who  would 
see  me  immediately.  At  that  instant  the  Duke  came  into  the 
apartment,  and  I was  so  confounded  on  the  occasion  that  I wanted 
words  barely  sufficient  to  express  the  sense  I entertained  of  the 
Duke’s  politeness,  and  went  away  exceedingly  chagrined  at  the 

mder  I had  committed.” 

Sir  John  Hawkins,  in  his  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson,  gives  some 
farther  particulars  of  this  visit,  of  which  he  was,  in  part,  a wit- 
ness. “Having  one  day,”  says  he,  “a  call  to  make  on  the  late 
Duke  (then  Earl)  of  Northumberland,  I found  Goldsmith  waiting 
for  an  audience  in  an  outer  room  : I asked  him  what  had  brought 
him  there ; he  told  me,  an  invitation,  from  his  lordship.  I made 


120 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


my  business  as  short  as  I could,  and,  as  a reason,  mentioned  that 
Dr.  Goldsmitli  was  waiting  without.  The  Earl  asked  me  if  I was 
acquainted  with  him.  I told  him  that  I was,  adding  what  I 
thought  was  most  likely  to  recommend  him.  I retired,  and  stayed 
in  the  outer  room  to  take  him  home.  Upon  his  coming  out,  I 
asked  him  the  result  of  his  conversation.  ‘ His  lordship,’  said  he, 
‘told  me  he  had  read  my  poem,  meaning  the  Traveller^  and  was 
much  delighted  with  it ; that  he  was  going  to  be  lord-lieutenant 
of  Ireland,  and  that,  hearing  I was  a native  of  that  country,  he 
should  be  glad  to  do  me  any  kindness.’  ‘And  what  did  you 
answer,’  said  I,  ‘to  this  gracious  offer?’  ‘Why,’  said  he,  ‘I 
could  say  nothing  but  that  I had  a brother  there,  a clergyman, 
that  stood  in  need  of  help  : as  for  myself,  I have  no  great  de- 
pendence on  the  promises  of  great  men ; I look  to  the  booksellers 
for  support ; they  are  my  best  friends,  and  I am  not  inclined 
to  forsake  them  for  others.’”  “Thus,”  continues  Sir  John,  “did 
this  idiot  in  the  affairs  of  the  world  trifle  with  his  fortunes,  and 
put  back  the  hand  that  was  held  out  to  assist  him.” 

We  cannot  join  with  Sir  John  in  his  worldly  sneer  at  the  con- 
duct of  Goldsmith  on  this  occasion.  While  we  admire  that  honest 
independence  of  spirit  which  prevented  him  from  asking  favors  for 
himself,  we  love  that  warmth  of  affection  which  instantly  sought 
to  advance  the  fortunes  of  a brother ; but  the  peculiar  merits  of 
poor  Goldsmith  seem  to  have  been  little  understood  by  the 
Hawkinses,  the  Boswells,  and  the  other  biographers  of  the 
day. 

After  all,  the  introduction  to  Northumberland  House  did  not 
prove  so  complete  a failure  as  the  humorous  account  given  by 
Goldsmith,  and  the  cynical  account  given  by  Sir  John  Hawkins, 
might  lead  one  to  suppose.  Dr.  Percy,  the  heir  male  of  the 
ancient  Percies,  brought  the  poet  into  the  acquaintance  of  his 
kinswoman,  the  countess ; who,  before  her  marriage  with  the  earl, 
was  in  her  own  right  heiress  of  the  House  of  Northumberland. 
“She  was  a lady,”  says  Boswell,  “not  only  of  high  dignity  of 
spirit,  such  as  became  her  noble  blood,  but  of  excellent  under- 


'’'•THE  HERMIT, 


121 


standing  and  lively  talents.’^  Under  her  auspices  a poem  of  Gold- 
smith’s had  an  aristocratical  introduction  to  the  world.  This  was 
the  beautiful  ballad  of  The  Hermit^  originally  published  under  the 
name  of  Edwin  and  Angelina.  It  was  suggested  by  an  old 
English  ballad  beginning  “ Gentle  Herdsman/’  shown  him  by  Ur. 
Percy,  who  was  at  that  time  making  his  famous  collection,  entitled 
Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry.^  which  he  submitted  to  the 
inspection  of  Goldsmith  prior  to  publication.  A few  copies  only 
of  The  Hermit  were  printed  at  first,  with  the  following  title-page  : 
“Edwin  and  Angelina:  a Ballad.  By  Mr.  Goldsmith.  Printed 
for  the  Amusement  of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland.” 

All  this,  though  it  may  not  have  been  attended  with  any  im- 
mediate pecuniary  advantage,  contributed  to  give  Goldsmith’s 
name  and  poetry  the  high  stamp  of  hishion,  so  potent  in  England  : 
the  circle  at  Northumberland  House,  however,  was  of  too  stately 
and  aristocratical  a nature  to  be  much  to  his  taste,  and  we  do  not 
find  that  he  became  familiar  in  it. 

He  was  much  more  at  home  at  Gosfield,  the  seat  of  his 
countryman,  Robert  Nugent,  afterwards  Baron  Nugent  and  Vis- 
count Clare,  who  appreciated  his  merits  even  more  heartily  than 
the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  and  occasionally  made  him  his  guest 
both  in  town  and  country.  Nugent  is  described  as  a jovial  volup- 
tuary, who  left  the  Roman- Catholic  for  the  Protestant  religion, 
with  a view  to  bettering  his  fortunes  ; he  had  an  Irishman’s  in- 
clination for  rich  widows,  and  an  Irishman’s  luck  with  the  sex  ; 
having  been  thrice  married,  and  gained  a fortune  with  each  wife. 
He  was  now  nearly  sixty,  with  a remarkably  loud  voice,  broad 
Irish  brogue,  and  ready,  but  somewhat  coarse  wit.  With  all  his 
occasional  coarseness  he  was  capable  of  high  thought,  and  had 
produced  poems  which  showed  a truly  poetic  vein.  He  was  long 
a member  of  the  House  of  Commons,  where  his  ready  wit,  his 
fearless  decision,  and  good-humored  audacity  of  expression  always 
gained  him  a hearing,  though  his  tall  person  and  awkward  manner 
gained  him  the  nickname  of  Squire  Gawky  among  the  political 
scribblers  of  the  day.  With  a patron  of  this  jovial  temperament. 


122 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


Goldsmith  probably  felt  more  at  ease  than  with  those  of  higher 
refinement. 

The  celebrity  which  Goldsmith  had  acquired  by  his  poem  of 
The  Traveller  occasioned  a resuscitation  of  many  of  his  miscellane- 
ous and  anonymous  tales  and  essays  from  the  various  newspapers 
and  other  transient  publications  in  which  they  lay  dormant. 
These  he  published  in  1765,  in  a collected  form,  under  the  title  of 
Essays  hy  Mr.  Goldsmith.  ‘‘  The  following  Essays,”  observes  he 
in  his  preface,  “ have  already  appeared  at  different  times,  and  in 
different  publications.  The  pamphlets  in  which  they  were  in- 
serted being  generally  unsuccessful,  these  shared  the  common  fate, 
without  assisting  the  booksellers’  aims,  or  extending  the  author’s 
reputation.  The  public  were  too  strenuously  employed  with  their 
own  follies  to  be  assiduous  in  estimating  mine ; so  that  many  of 
my  best  attempts  in  this  way  have  fallen  victims  to  the  transient 
topic  of  the  times  — the  Ghost  in  Cock  Lane,  or  the  Siege  of 
Ticonderoga. 

“ But,  though  they  have  passed  pretty  silently  into  the  world, 
I can  by  no  means  complain  of  their  circulation.  The  magazines 
and  papers  of  the  day  have  indeed  been  liberal  enough  in  this 
respect.  Most  of  these  essays  have  been  regularly  reprinted  twice 
or  thrice  a year,  and  conveyed  to  the  public  through  the  kennel  of 
some  engaging  compilation.  If  there  be  a pride  in  multiplied  edi- 
tions, I have  seen  some  of  my  labors  sixteen  times  reprinted,  and 
claimed  by  different  parents  as  their  own.  I have  seen  them  flour- 
ished at  the  beginning  with  praise,  and  signed  at  the  end  with  the 
names  of  Philautos,  Philalethes,  Phileleutheros,  and  Philanthropos. 
It  is  time,  however,  at  last  to  vindicate  my  claims ; and  as  these 
entertainers  of  the  public,  as  they  call  themselves,  have  partly 
livqd  upon  me  for  some  years,  let  me  now  try  if  I cannot  live 
a little  upon  myself” 

It  was  but  little,  in  fact ; for  all  the  pecuniary  emolument  he 
received  from  the  volume  was  twenty  guineas.  It  had  a good 
circulation,  however,  was  translated  into  French,  and  has  main- 
tained its  stand  among  the  British  classics. 


GOODY  TWO  SHOES. 


123 


Notwithstanding  that  the  reputation  of  Goldsmith  had  greatly 
risen,  his  finances  were  often  at  a very  low  ebb,  owing  to  his 
heedlessness  as  to  expense,  his  liability  to  be  imposed  upon,  and  a 
spontaneous  and  irresistible  propensity  to  give  to  every  one  who 
asked.  The  very  rise  in  his  reputation  had  increased  these  em- 
barrassments. It  had  enlarged  his  circle  of  needy  acquaintances, 
authors  poorer  in  pocket  than  himself,  who  came  in  search  of 
literary  council ; which  generally  meant  a guinea  and  a breakfast. 
And  then  his  Irish  hangers-on  ! “ Our  Doctor,”  said  one  of  these 

sponges,  ‘‘had  a constant  levee  of  his  distressed  countrymen, 
whose  wants,  as  far  as  he  was  able,  he  always  relieved ; and  he 
has  often  been  known  to  leave  himself  without  a guinea,  in  order 
to  supply  the  necessities  of  others.” 

This  constant  drainage  of  the  purse,  therefore,  obliged  diim  to 
undertake  all  jobs  proposed  by  the  booksellers,  and  to  keep  up  a 
kind  of  running  account  with  Mr.  Newbery ; who  was  his  banker 
on  all  occasions,  sometimes  for  pounds,  sometimes  for  shillings ; 
but  who  was  a rigid  accountant,  and  took  care  to  be  amply  repaid 
in  manuscript.  Many  effusions,  hastily  penned  in  these  moments 
of  exigency,  were  published  anonymously,  and  never  claimed. 
Some  of  them  have  but  recently  been  traced  to  his  pen ; while  of 
many  the  true  authorship  will  probably  never  be  discovered. 
Among  others,  it  is  suggested,  and  with  great  probability,  that  he 
wrote  for  Mr.  Newbery  the  famous  nursery  story  of  Goody  Two 
Shoes^  which  appeared  in  1765,  at  a moment  when  Goldsmith 
was  scribbling  for  Newbery,  and  much  pressed  for  funds.  Several 
quaint  little  tales  introduced  in  his  Essays  show  that  he  had  a turn 
for  this  species  of  mock  history ; and  the  advertisement  and  title- 
page  bear  the  stamp  of  his  sly  and  playful  humor. 

“We  are  desired  to  give  notice  that  there  is  in  the  press,  and 
speedily  will  be  published,  either  by  subscription  or  otherwise,  as 
the  public  shall  please  to  determine,  the  History  of  Little  Goody 
Two  Shoes^  otherwise  Mrs,  Margery  Tivo  Shoes;  with  the 
means  by  which  she  acquired  learning  and  wisdom,  and,  in  conse- 
quence thereof,  her  estate ; set  forth  at  large  for  the  benefit  of  those 


124 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


“ Who,  from  a state  of  rags  and  care, 

And  having  shoes  but  half  a pair, 

Their  fortune  and  their  fame  should  fix, 

And  gallop  in  a coach  and  six.” 

The  world  is  probably  not  aware  of  the  ingenuity,  humor,  good 
sense,  and  sly  satire  contained  in  many  of  the  old  English  nursery- 
tales.  They  have  evidently  been  the  sportive  productions  of  able 
writers,  who  would  not  trust  their  names  to  productions  that 
might  be  considered  beneath  their  dignity.  The  ponderous  works 
on  which  they  relied  for  immortality  have  perhaps  sunk  into 
oblivion,  and  carried  their  names  down  with  them ; while  their 
unacknowledged  ofifspring.  Jack  the  Giant  Killer^  Giles  Ginger- 
bread^ and  Tom  Thumbs  flourish  in  wide-spreading  and  never- 
ceasing  popularity. 

As  Goldsmith  had  now  acquired  popularity  and  an  extensive 
acquaintance,  he  attempted,  with  the  advice  of  his  friends,  to 
procure  a more  regular  and  ample  support  by  resuming  the 
medical  profession.  He  accordingly  launched  himself  upon  the 
town  in  style ; hired  a man-servant ; replenished  his  wardrobe  at 
considerable  expense,  and  appeared  in  a professional  wig  and  cane, 
purple  silk  small-clothes,  and  a scarlet  roquelaure  buttoned  to  the 
chin  : a fantastic  garb,  as  we  should  think  at  the  present  day,  but 
not  unsuited  to  the  fashion  of  the  times. 

With  his  sturdy  little  person  thus  arrayed  in  the  unusual 
magnificence  of  purple  and  fine  linen,  and  his  scarlet  roquelaure 
flaunting  from  his  shoulders,  he  used  to  strut  into  the  apartments 
of  his  patients  swaying  his  three-cornered  hat  in  one  hand  and  his 
medical  sceptre,  the  cane,  in  the  other,  and  assuming  an  air  of 
gravity  and  importance  suited  to  the  solemnity  of  his  wig;  at 
least,  such  is  the  picture  given  of  him  by  the  waiting  gentle- 
woman who  let  him  into  the  chamber  of  one  of  his  lady-patients. 

He  soon,  however,  grew  tired  and  impatient  of  the  duties  and 
restraints  of  his  profession ; his  practice  was  chiefly  among  his 
friends,  and  the  fees  were  not  sufficient  for  his  maintenance ; he 
was  disgusted  with  attendance  on  sick-chambers  and  capricious 


'•'■THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD. 


125 


patients,  and  looked  back  with  longing  to  his  tavern-haunts  and 
broad  convivial  meetings,  from  which  the  dignity  and  duties  of  his 
medical  calling  restrained  him.  At  length,  on  prescribing  to  a 
lady  of  his  acquaintance,  who,  to  use  a hackneyed  phrase,  ‘‘rejoiced” 
in  the  aristocratical  name  of  Sidebotham,  a warm  dispute  arose 
between  him  and  the  apothecary  as  to  the  quantity  of  medicine  to 
be  administered.  The  Doctor  stood  up  for  the  rights  and  digni- 
ties of  his  profession,  and  resented  the  interference  of  the  com- 
pounder of  drugs.  His  rights  and  dignities,  however,  were 
disregarded  ; his  wig  and  cane  and  scarlet  roquelaure  were  of  no 
avail;  Mrs.  Sidebotham  sided  with  the  hero  of  the  pestle  and  mortar; 
and  Goldsmith  flung  out  of  the  bouse  in  a passion.  “I  am  deter- 
mined henceforth,”  said  he  to  Topham  Beauclerc,  “to  leave  off  pre- 
scribing for  friends.”  “Do  so,  my  dear  Doctor,”  was  the  reply; 
“whenever  you  undertake  to  kill,  let  it  be  only  your  enemies.” 

This  was  the  end  of  Goldsmith’s  medical  career. 

CHAPTEE  XVII. 

The  success  of  the  poem  of  The  Traveller^  and  the  popularity 
which  it  had  conferred  on  its  author,  now  roused  the  attention 
of  the  bookseller  in  whose  hands  the  novel  of  The  Vicar  of  Wahe- 
field  had  been  slumbering  for  nearly  two  long  years.  The  idea 
has  generally  prevailed  that  it  was  Mr.  John  Newbery  to  whom 
the  manuscript  had  been  sold,  and  much  surprise  has  been 
expressed  that  he  should  be  insensible  to  its  merit  and  suffer  it  to 
remain  unpublished,  while  putting  forth  various  inferior  writings 
by  the  same  author.  This,  however,  is  a mistake;  it  was  his 
nephew,  Francis  Xewbery,  who  had  become  the  fortunate  pur- 
chaser. Still  the  delay  is  equally  unaccountable.  Some  have 
imagined  that  the  uncle  and  nephew  had  business  arrangements 
together,  in  which  this  work  was  included,  and  that  the  elder 
Newbery,  dubious  of  its  success,  retarded  the  publication  until  the 
full  harvest  of  The  Traveller  should  be  reaped.  Booksellers  are 
prone  to  make  egregious  mistakes  as  to  the  merit  of  works  in  manu- 


126 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


script ; and  to  undervalue,  if  not  reject,  those  of  classic  and  en- 
during  excellence,  when  destitute  of  that  false  brilliancy  commonly 
called  “ effect.’’  In  the  present  instance,  an  intellect  vastly  su- 
perior to  that  of  either  of  the  booksellers  was  equally  at  fault.  Dr. 
Johnson,  speaking  of  the  work  to  Boswell,  some  time  subsequent 
to  its  publication,  observed,  “I  myself  did  not  think  it  would  have 
had  much  success.  It  was  written  and  sold  to  a bookseller  before 
The  Traveller^  but  published  after,  so  little  expectation  had  the 
bookseller  from  it.  Had  it  been  sold  after  The  Traveller^  he 
might  have  had  twice  as  much  money  ; though  sixty  guineas  was 
no  mean  priceT 

Sixty  guineas  for  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield!  and  this  could  be 
pronounced  no  mean  price  by  Dr.  Johnson,  at  that  time  the 
arbiter  of  British  talent,  and  who  had  had  an  opportunity  of  wit- 
nessing the  effect  of  the  work  upon  the  public  mind ; for  its  suc- 
cess was  immediate.  It  came  out  on  the  27th  of  March,  1766; 
before  the  end  of  May  a second  edition  w^as  called  for ; in  three 
months  more,  a third ; and  so  it  went  on,  widening  in  a popularity 
that  has  never  flagged.  Rogers,  the  Nestor  of  British  literature, 
whose  refined  purity  of  taste  and  exquisite  mental  organization 
rendered  him  eminently  calculated  to  appreciate  a work  of  the 
kind,  declared  that  of  all  the  books  which  through  the  fitful 
changes  of  three  generations  he  had  seen  rise  and  fall,  the  charm 
of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  had  alone  continued  as  at  first ; and 
could  he  revisit  the  world  after  an  interval  of  many  more  genera- 
tions, he  should  as  surely  look  to  find  it  undiminished.  Nor  has 
its  celebrity  been  confined  to  Great  Britain.  Though  so  exclu- 
sively a picture  of  British  scenes  and  manners,  it  has  been  trans- 
lated into  almost  every  language,  and  everywhere  its  charm  has 
been  the  same.  Goethe,  the  great  genius  of  Germany,  declared  in 
his  eighty-first  year,  that  it  was  his  delight  at  the  age  of  twenty, 
that  it  had  in  a manner  formed  a part  of  his  education,  influencing 
his  taste  and  feelings  throughout  life,  and  that  he  had  recently  read 
it  again  from  beginning  to  end  — with  renewed  delight,  and  with 
a grateful  sense  of  the  early  benefit  derived  from  it. 


THE  VICAR  OF  WAKEFIELD.'"  127 

It  is  needless  to  expatiate  upon  the  qualities  of  a work  which 
has  thus  passed  from  country  to  country,  and  language  to  lan- 
guage, until  it  is  now  known  throughout  the  whole  reading-world 
and  is  become  a household  book  in  every  hand.  The  secret  of  its 
universal  and  enduring  popularity  is  undoubtedly  its  truth  to  na- 
ture, but  to  nature  of  the  most  amiable  kind,  to  nature  such  as 
Goldsmith  saw  it.  The  author,  as  we  have  occasionally  shown  in 
the  course  of  this  memoir,  took  his  scenes  and  characters  in  this, 
as  in  his  other  writings,  from  originals  in  his  own  motley  experi- 
ence ; but  he  has  given  them  as  seen  through  the  medium  of  his 
own  indulgent  eye,  and  has  set  them  forth  with  the  colorings  of 
his  own  good  head  and  heart.  Yet  how  contradictory  it  seems 
that  this,  one  of  the  most  delightful  pictures  of  home  and  homefelt 
happiness  should  be  drawn  by  a homeless  man ; that  the  most  ami- 
able picture  of  domestic  virtue  and  all  the  endearments  of  the 
married  state  should  be  drawn  by  a bachelor,  who  had  been  sev- 
ered from  domestic  life  almost  from  boyhood ; that  one  of  the  most 
tender,  touching,  and  affecting  appeals  on  behalf  of  female  loveli- 
ness should  have  been  made  by  a man  whose  deficiency  in  all  the 
graces  of  person  and  manner  seemed  to  mark  him  out  for  a cynical 
disparager  of  the  sex. 

We  cannot  refrain  from  transcribing  from  the  work  a short  pas- 
sage illustrative  of  what  we  have  said,  and  which  within  a won- 
derfully small  compass  comprises  a world  of  beauty  of  imagery, 
tenderness  of  feeling,  delicacy  and  refinement  of  thought,  and  match- 
less purity  of  style.  The  two  stanzas  which  conclude  it,  in  which  are 
told  a whole  history  of  woman’s  wrongs  and  sufferings,  is,  for  pathos, 
simplicity,  and  euphony,  a gem  in  the  language.  The  scene  depicted 
is  where  the  poor  Vicar  is  gathering  around  him  the  wrecks  of  his 
shattered  family,  and  endeavoring  to  rally  them  back  to  happiness. 

“ The  next  morning  the  sun  arose  with  peculiar  warmth  for  the  sea- 
son, so  that  we  agreed  to  breakfast  together  on  the  honeysuckle  bank ; 
where,  while  we  sat,  my  youngest  daughter  at  my  request  joined  her 
voice  to  the  concert  on  the  trees  about  us.  It  was  in  this  place  my 
poor  Olivia  first  met  her  seducer,  and  every  object  served  to  recall  her 


128 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


sadness.  But  that  melancholy  which  is  excited  by  objects  of  pleasure, 
or  inspired  by  sounds  of  harmony,  soothes  the  heart  instead  of  corrod- 
ing it.  Her  mother,  too,  upon  this  occasion,  felt  a pleasing  distress, 
and  wept  and  loved  her  daughter  as  before.  ‘Do,  my  pretty  Olivia,’ 
cried  she,  ‘ let  us  have  that  melancholy  air  your  father  was  so  fund  of ; 
your  sister  Sophy  has  already  obliged  us.  Do,  child,  it  will  please 
your  old  father.  ’ She  complied  in  a manner  so  exquisitely  pathetic 
as  moved  me. 

“ ‘ When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly. 

And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray. 

What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 

What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

“ ‘ The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover. 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 

And  wring  his  bosom  — is  to  die.  ’ ” 

Scarce  had  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  made  its  appearance  and 
been  received  with  acclamation,  than  its  author  was  subjected  to 
one  of  the  usual  penalties  that  attend  success.  He  was  attacked 
in  the  newspapers.  In  one  of  the  chapters  he  had  introduced  his 
ballad  of  The  Hermit,  of  which,  as  we  have  mentioned,  a few 
copies  had  been  printed  some  considerable  time  previously  for  the 
use  of  the  Countess  of  Northumberland.  This  brought  forth  the 
following  article  in  a fashionable  journal  of  the  day  : — 

“ To  the  Printer  of  the  ‘ St.  Jameses  Chronicle.'* 

“Sir,  — In  the  ‘ Reliques  of  Ancient  Poetry,’  published  about  two 
years  ago,  is  a very  beautiful  little  ballad,  called  ‘ A Friar  of  Orders 
Gray.’  The  ingenious  editor,  Mr.  Percy,  supposes  that  the  stanzas  sung 
by  Ophelia  in  the  play  of  ‘ Hamlet  ’ were  parts  of  some  ballad  well  known 
in  Shakspeare’s  time,  and  from  these  stanzas,  with  the  addition  of 
one  or  two  of  his  own  to  connect  them,  he  has  formed  the  above-men- 
tioned ballad ; the  subject  of  which  is,  a lady  comes  to  a convent  to 
inquire  for  her  love  who  had  been  driven  there  by  her  disdain.  She 
is  answered  by  a friar  that  he  is  dead : — 

“ ‘No,  no,  he  is  dead,  gone  to  his  death’s  bed. 

He  never  will  come  again.’ 


NEWSPAPER  ATTACK. 


129 


The  lady  weeps  and  laments  her  cruelty  ; the  friar  endeavors  to  com- 
fort her  with  morality  and  religion,  but  all  in  vain  ; she  expresses  the 
deepest  grief  and  the  most  tender  sentiments  of  love,  till  at  last  the 
friar  discovers  himself  : — 

‘‘  ‘ And  lo!  beneath  this  gown  of  gray 
Thy  own  true  love  appears.’ 

“ This  catastrophe  is  very  fine,  and  the  whole,  joined  with  the 
greatest  tenderness,  has  the  greatest  simplicity  ; yet,  though  this  bal- 
lad was  so  recently  published  in  the  ‘ Ancient  Reliques,’  Dr.  Gold- 
smith has  been  hardy  enough  to  publish  a poem  called  ‘The  Hermit,’ 
where  the  circumstances  and  catastrophe  are  exactly  the  same,  only 
with  this  difference,  that  the  natural  simplicity  and  tenderness  of  the 
original  are  almost  entirely  lost  in  the  languid  smoothness  and  tedious 
paraphrase  of  the  copy,  which  is  as  short  of  the  merits  of  Mr.  Percy’s 
ballad  as  the  insipidity  of  negus  is  to  the  genuine  flavor  of  champagne. 

“I  am,  sir,  yours,  &c., 

“ Detector.” 

This  attack,  supposed  to  be  by  Goldsmith’s  constant  persecutor, 
the  malignant  Kenrick,  drew  from  him  the  following  note  to  the 
editor : — 

“ Sir,  — As  there  is  nothing  I dislike  so  much  as  newspaper  contro- 
versy, particularly  upon  trifles,  permit  me  to  be  as  concise  as  possible 
in  informing  a correspondent  of  yours  that  I recommended  BlainvillPs 
Travels  because  I thought  the  book  was  a good  one ; and  I think  so 
still.  I said  I was  told  by  the  bookseller  that  it  was  then  first  pub- 
lished ; but  in  that  it  seems  I was  misinformed,  and  my  reading  was 
not  extensive  enough  to  set  me  right. 

“ Another  correspondent  of  yours  accuses  me  of  having  taken  a bal- 
lad I published  some  time  ago,  from  one  by  the  ingenious  Mr.  Percy. 
1 do  not  think  there  is  any  great  resemblance  between  the  two  pieces 
in  question.  If  there  be  any,  his  ballad  was  taken  from  mine.  I 
read  it  to  Mr.  Percy  some  years  ago  ; and  he,  as  we  both  considered 
these  things  as  trifles  at  best,  told  me,  with  his  usual  good-humor,  the 
next  time  I saw  him,  that  he  had  taken  my  plan  to  form  the  frag- 
ments of  Shakspeare  into  a ballad  of  his  own.  He  then  read  me  his 
little  Cento,  if  I may  so  call  it,  and  I highly  approved  it.  Such  petty 
anecdotes  as  these  are  scarcely  worth  printing ; and,  were  it  not  for 
the  busy  disposition  of  some  of  your  correspondents,  the  public  should 
never  have  known  that  he  owes  me  the  hint  of  his  ballad,  or  that  I am 


130 


OLIVER  OOLB^MITH, 


obliged  to  his  friendship  and  learning  for  communications  of  a much 
more  important  nature. 

“ I am,  sir,  yours,  &c., 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

The  unexpected  circulation  of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  enriched 
the  publisher,  but  not  the  author.  Goldsmith  no  doubt  thought 
himself  entitled  to  participate  in  the  profits  of  the  repeated  edi- 
tions j and  a memorandum,  still  extant,  shows  that  he  drew  upon 
Mr.  Francis  Newbery,  in  the  month  of  June,  for  fifteen  guineas, 
but  that  the  bill  was  returned  dishonored.  He  continued,  there- 
fore, his  usual  job-work  for  the  booksellers,  writing  introduc- 
tions, prefaces,  and  head  and  tail-pieces,  for  new  works ; revising, 
touching  up,  and  modifying  travels  and  voyages ; making  compila- 
tions of  prose  and  poetry,  and  “building  books,”  as  he  sportively 
termed  it.  These  tasks  required  little  labor  or  talent,  but  that 
taste  and  touch  which  are  the  magic  of  gifted  minds.  His  terms 
began  to  be  proportioned  to  his  celebrity.  If  his  price  was  at  any 
time  objected  to,  “ Why,  sir,”  he  would  say,  “ it  may  seem  large ; 
but  then  a man  may  be  many  years  working  in  obscurity  before 
his  taste  and  reputation  are  fixed  or  estimated ; and  then  he  is,  as 
in  other  professions,  only  paid  for  his  previous  labors.” 

He  was,  however,  prepared  to  try  his  fortune  in  a different 
walk  of  literature  from  any  he  had  yet  attempted.  We  have  re- 
peatedly adverted  to  his  fondness  for  the  drama ; he  was  a fre- 
quent attendant  at  the  theatres ; though,  as  we  have  shown,  he 
considered  them  under  gross  mismanagement.  He  thought,  too, 
that  a vicious  taste  prevailed  among  those  who  wrote  for  the 
stage.  “ A new  species  of  dramatic  composition,”  says  he,  in  one 
of  his  essays,  “has  been  introduced  under  the  name  of  sentimental 
comedy^  in  which  the  virtues  of  private  life  are  exhibited  rather 
than  the  vices  exposed  ; and  the  distresses  rather  than  the  faults 
of  mankind  make  our  interest  in  the  piece.  In  these  plays  almost 
all  the  characters  are  good,  and  exceedingly  generous;  they  are 
lavish  enough  of  their  tin  money  on  the  stage  ; and  though  they 
want  humor,  have  abundance  of  sentiment  and  feeling,  If  they 


PROJECT  OF  A COMEDY, 


131 


happen  to  have  faults  or  foibles,  the  spectator  is  taught  not  only 
to  pardon,  but  to  applaud  them  in  consideration  of  the  goodness 
of  their  hearts ; so  that  folly,  instead  of  being  ridiculed,  is  com- 
mended, and  the  comedy  aims  at  touching  our  passions,  without 
the  power  of  being  truly  pathetic.  In  this  manner  we  are  likely 
to  lose  one  great  source  of  entertainment  on  the  stage;  for,  while 
the  comic  poet  is  invading  the  province  of  the  tragic  muse,  he 
leaves  her  lively  sister  quite  neglected.  Of  this,  however,  he  is  no 
ways  solicitous,  as  he  measures  his  fame  by  his  profits.  . . . 

“ Humor  at  present  seems  to  be  departing  from  the  stage ; and 
it  will  soon  happen  that  our  comic  players  will  have  nothing  left 
for  it  but  a fine  coat  and  a song.  It  depends  upon  the  audience 
whether  they  will  actually  drive  these  poor  merry  creatures  from 
the  stage,  or  sit  at  a play  as  gloomy  as  at  the  tabernacle.  It  is 
not  easy  to  recover  an  art  when  once  lost ; and  it  will  be  a just 
punishment,  that  when,  by  our  being  too  fastidious,  we  have 
banished  humor  from  the  stage,  we  should  ourselves  be  deprived 
of  the  art  of  laughing.” 

Symptoms  of  reform  in  the  drama  had  recently  taken  place. 
The  comedy  of  the  Clandestine  Marriage^  the  joint  production  of 
Col  man  and  Garrick,  and  suggested  by  Hogarth’s  inimitable 
pictures  of  Mariage  a la  mode^  had  taken  the  town  by  storm, 
crowded  the  theatre  with  fashionable  audiences,  and  formed  one  of 
the  leading  literary  topics  of  the  year.  Goldsmith’s  emulation 
was  roused  by  its  success.  The  comedy  was,  in  what  he  con 
sidered  the  legitimate  line,  totally  different  from  the  sentimental 
school ; it  presented  pictures  of  real  life,  delineations  of  character 
and  touches  of  humor,  in  which  he  felt  himself  calculated  to  excel. 
The  consequence  was,  that  in  the  course  of  this  year  (1766)  he 
commenced  a comedy  of  the  same  class,  to  be  entitled  the  “ Good- 
Natured  Man,”  at  which  he  diligently  wrought  whenever  the 
hurried  occupation  of  “book-building”  allowed  him  leisure. 


132 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

The  social  position  of  Goldsmith  had  undergone  a material 
change  since  the  publication  of  The  Traveller.  Before  that 
event  he  was  but  partially  known  as  the  author  of  some  clever 
anonymous  writings,  and  had  been  a tolerated  member  of  the 
club  and  the  Johnson  circle,  without  much  being  expected  from 
him.  Now  he  had  suddenly  risen  to  literary  fame,  and  become 
one  of  the  lions  of  the  day.  The  highest  regions  of  intellectual 
society  were  now  open  to  him  ; but  he  was  not  prepared  to  move 
in  them  with  confidence  and  success.  Ballymahon  had  not  been  a 
good  school  of  manners  at  the  outset  of  life  ; nor  had  his  experi- 
ence as  a “ poor  student  ” at  colleges  and  medical  schools  contrib- 
uted to  give  him  the  polish  of  society.  He  had  brought  from 
Ireland,  as  he  said,  nothing  but  his  “ brogue  and  his  blunders,’’ 
and  they  had  never  left  him.  He  had  travelled,  it  is  true  ; but  the 
Continental  tour  which  in  those  days  gave  the  finishing  grace  to 
the  education  of  a patrician  youth,  had,  with  poor  Goldsmith,  been 
little  better  than  a course  of  literary  vagabondizing.  It  had 
enriched  his  mind,  deepened  and  widened  the  benevolence  of  his 
heart,  and  filled  his  memory  with  enchanting  pictures,  but  it  had 
contributed  little  to  disciplining  him  for  the  polite  intercourse  of 
the  world.  His  life  in  London  had  hitherto  been  a struggle  with 
sordid  cares  and  sad  humiliations.  “ You  scarcely  can  conceive,” 
wrote  he  some  time  previously  to  his  brother,  “ how  much  eight 
years  of  disappointment,  anguish,  and  study  have  worn  me  down.” 
Several  more  years  had  since  been  added  to  the  term  during  which 
he  had  trod  the  lowly  walks  of  life.  He  had  been  a tutor,  an 
apothecary’s  drudge,  a petty  physician  of  the  suburbs,  a book- 
seller’s hack,  drudging  for  daily  bread.  Each  separate  walk  had 
been  beset  by  its  peculiar  thorns  and  humiliations.  It  is  wonder- 
fid  how  his  heart  retained  its  gentleness  and  kindness  through  all 
these  trials ; how  his  mind  rose  above  the  “ meannesses  of  pov- 
erty,” to  which,  as  he  says,  he  was  compelled  to  submit ; but  it 


SOCIAL  POSITION. 


133 


would  be  still  more  wonderful,  had  his  manners  acquired  a tone 
corresponding  to  the  innate  grace  and  refinement  of  his  intellect. 
He  was  near  forty  years  of  age  when  he  published  The  Traveller^ 
and  was  lifted  by  it  into  celebrity.  As  is  beautifully  said  of  him 
by  one  of  his  biographers,  he  has  fought  his  way  to  consideration 
and  esteem  ; but  he  bears  upon  him  the  scars  of  his  twelve  years’ 
conflict ; of  the  mean  sorrows  through  which  he  has  passed ; and  of 
the  cheap  indulgences  he  has  sought  relief  and  help  from.  There 
is  nothing  plastic  in  his  nature  now.  His  manners  and  habits 
are  completely  formed  ; and  in  them  any  further  success  can  make 
little  favorable  change,  whatever  it  may  effect  for  his  mind  or 
genius.”  ^ 

We  are  not  to  be  surprised,  therefore,  at  finding  him  make  an 
awkward  figure  in  the  elegant  drawing-rooms  which  were  now 
open  to  him,  and  disappointing  those  who  had  formed  an  idea  of 
him  from  the  fascinating  ease  and  gracefulness  of  his  poetry. 

Even  the  literary  club,  and  the  circle  of  which  it  formed  a part, 
after  their  surprise  at  the  intellectual  flights  of  which  he  showed 
himself  capable,  fell  into  a conventional  mode  of  judging  and 
talking  of  him,  and  of  placing  him  in  absurd  and  whimsical 
points  of  view.  His  very  celebrity  operated  here  to  his  disadvan- 
tage. It  brought  him  into  continual  comparison  with  Johnson, 
who  was  the  oracle  of  that  circle  and  had  given  it  a tone.  Con- 
versation was  the  great  staple  there,  and  of  this  Johnson  was  a 
master.  He  had  been  a reader  and  thinker  from  childhood : his 
melancholy  temperament,  which  unfitted  him  for  the  pleasures 
of  youth,  had  made  him  so.  For  many  years  past  the  vast 
variety  of  works  he  had  been  obliged  to  consult  in  preparing  his 
Dictionary,  had  stored  an  uncommonly  retentive  memory  with 
facts  on  all  kinds  of  subjects  ; making  it  a perfect  colloquial 
armory.  “ He  had  all  his  life,”  says  Boswell,  “habituated  him- 
self to  consider  conversation  as  a trial  of  intellectual  vigor  and 
skill.  He  had  disciplined  himself  as  a talker  as  well  as  a writer, 
making  it  a rule  to  impart  whatever  he  knew  in  the  most  forcible 


1 Forster’s  Goldsmith. 


134 


OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH, 


language  he  could  put  it  in,  so  that  by  constant  practice  and 
never  suffering  any  careless  expression  to  escape  him,  he  had 
attained  an  extraordinary  accuracy  and  command  of  language.’’ 

His  conversation  in  all  companies,  according  to  Sir  Joshua 
Keynolds,  was  such  as  to  secure  him  universal  attention,  some- 
thing above  the  usual  colloquial  style  being  always  expected  from 
him. 

“ I do  not  care,”  said  Orme,  the  historian  of  Hindostan,  ‘‘  on 
what  subject  Johnson  talks;  but  I love  better  to  hear  him  talk 
than  anybody.  He  either  gives  you  new  thoughts  or  a new 
coloring.” 

A stronger  and  more  graphic  eulogium  is  given  by  Dr.  Percy. 
“The  conversation  of  Johnson,”  says  he,  “is  strong  and  clear, 
and  may  be  compared  to  an  antique  statue,  where  every  vein  and 
muscle  is  distinct  and  clear.” 

Such  was  the  colloquial  giant  with  which  Goldsmith’s  celebrity 
and  his  habits  of  intimacy  brought  him  into  continual  comparison  ; 
oan  we  wonder  that  he  should  appear  to  disadvantage  ? Conver- 
sation grave,  discursive,  and  disputatious,  such  as  Johnson  ex- 
celled and  delighted  in,  was  to  him  a severe  task,  and  he  never 
was  good  at  a task  of  any  kind.  He  had  not,  like  Johnson,  a 
vast  fund  of  acquired  facts  to  draw  upon  ; nor  a retentive  memory 
to  furnish  them  forth  when  wanted.  He  could  not,  like  the  great 
lexicographer,  mould  his  ideas  and  balance  his  periods  while  talk- 
ing. He  had  a flow  of  ideas,  but  it  was  apt  to  be  hurried  and 
confused ; and,  as  he  said  of  himself,  he  had  contracted  a hesitat- 
ing and  disagreeable  manner  of  speaking.  He  used  to  say  that 
he  always  argued  best  when  he  argued  alone ; that  is  to  say,  he 
could  master  a subject  in  his  study,  with  his  pen  in  his  hand ; 
but  when  he  came  into  company  he  grew  confused,  and  was  unable 
to  talk  about  it.  Johnson  made  a remark  concerning  him  to  some- 
what of  the  same  purport.  “No  man,”  said  he,  “ is  more  foolish 
than  Goldsmith  when  he  has  not  a pen  in  his  hand,  or  more  wise 
when  he  has.”  Yet  with  all  this  conscious  deficiency  he  was  con- 
^mually  getting  involved  in  colloquial  contests  with  Johnson  and 


GOLBiSMITir S CONVERSATION, 


135 


other  prime  talkers  of  the  literary  circle.  He  felt  that  he  had 
become  a notoriety,  that  he  had  entered  the  lists  and  was  expected 
to  make  fight ; so  with  that  heedlessness  which  characterized  him 
in  everything  else  he  dashed  on  at  a venture,  trusting  to  chance 
in  this  as  in  other  things,  and  hoping  occasionally  to  make  a 
lucky  hit.  Johnson  perceived  his  hap-hazard  temerity,  but  gave 
him  no  credit  for  the  real  diffidence  which  lay  at  bottom.  ‘‘The 
misfortune  of  Goldsmith  in  conversation,”  said  he,  “ is  this,  he 
goes  on  without  knowing  how  he  is  to  get  off.  His  genius  is 
great,  but  his  knowledge  is  small.  As  they  say  of  a generous 
man  it  is  a pity  he  is  not  rich,  we  may  say  of  Goldsmith  it  is  a 
pity  he  is  not  knowing.  He  would  not  keep  his  knowledge  to 
himself.”  And,  on  another  occasion,  he  observes  : “ Goldsmith, 
rather  than  not  talk,  will  talk  of  what  he  knows  himself  to  be 
ignorant,  which  can  only  end  in  exposing  him.  If  in  company 
with  two  founders,  he  would  fall  a-talking  on  the  method  of  mak- 
ing cannon,  though  both  of  them  would  soon  see  that  he  did  not 
know  what  metal  a cannon  is  made  of.”  And  again  : “ Gold- 
smith should  not  be  forever  attempting  to  shine  in  conversation ; 
he  has  not  temper  for  it,  he  is  so  much  mortified  when  he  fails. 
Sir,  a game  of  jokes  is  composed  partly  of  skill,  partly  of  chance  ; 
a man  may  be  beat  at  times  by  one  who  has  not  the  tenth  part 
of  his  wit.  Now  Goldsmith,  putting  himself  against  another,  is 
like  a man  laying  a hundred  to  one,  who  cannot  spare  the  hun- 
dred. It  is  not  worth  a man’s  while.  A man  should  not  lay  a 
hundred  to  one  unless  he  can  easily  spare  it,  though  he  has  a 
hundred  chances  for  him ; he  can  get  but  a guinea,  and  he  may 
lose  a hundred.  Goldsmith  is  in  this  state.  When  he  contends, 
if  he  gets  the  better,  it  is  a very  little  addition  to  a man  of  his 
literary  reputation ; if  he  does  not  get  the  better,  he  is  miserably 
vexed.” 

Johnson  was  not  aware  how  much  he  was  himself  to  blame  in 
producing  this  vexation.  “ Goldsmith,”  said  Miss  Reynolds, 
“always  appeared  to  be  overawed  by  Johnson,  particularly  when 
in  company  with  people  of  any  conseciuence ; always  as  if  iin- 


136 


OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH, 


pressed  with  fear  of  disgrace ; and  indeed  well  he  might.  I have 
been  witness  to  many  mortifications  he  has  suffered  in  Dr.  John- 
son’s company.” 

It  may  not  have  been  disgrace  that  he  feared,  but  rudeness. 
The  great  lexicographer,  spoiled  by  the  homage  of  society,  was 
still  more  prone  than  himself  to  lose  temper  when  the  argument 
went  against  him.  He  could  not  brook  appearing  to  be  worsted, 
but  would  attempt  to  bear  down  his  adversary  by  the  rolling 
thunder  of  his  periods,  and,  when  that  failed,  would  become  down- 
right insulting.  Boswell  called  it  “ having  recourse  to  some 
sudden  mode  of  robust  sophistry  ” ; but  Goldsmith  designated  it 
much  more  happily.  “ There  is  no  arguing  with  Johnson,”  said 
he,  “/or,  when  his  pistol  misses  Jlre,  he  knocks  you  down  with  the 
hut-end  of  it 

In  several  of  the  intellectual  collisions  recorded  by  Boswell  as 
triumphs  of  Dr.  Johnson,  it  really  appears  to  us  that  Goldsmith 
had  the  best  both  of  the  wit  and  the  argument,  and  especially  of 
the  courtesy  and  good-nature. 

On  one  occasion  he  certainly  gave  Johnson  a capital  reproof  as 
to  his  own  colloquial  peculiarities.  Talking  of  fables.  Goldsmith 
observed  that  the  animals  introduced  in  them  seldom  talked  in 
character.  “For  instance,”  said  he,  “the  fable  of  the  little  fishes, 
who  saw  birds  fly  over  their  heads,  and,  envying  them,  petitioned 
Jupiter  to  be  changed  into  birds.  The  skill  consists  in  making 
them  talk  like  little  fishes.”  Just  then  observing  that  Dr.  John- 
son was  shaking  his  sides  and  laughing,  he  immediately  added, 
“ Why,  Dr.  Johnson,  this  is  not  so  easy  as  you  seem  to  think ; 
for,  if  you  were  to  make  little  fishes  talk,  they  would  talk  like 
whales.” 

But  though  Goldsmith  suffered  frequent  mortifications  in  society 
from  the  overbearing,  and  sometimes  harsh,  conduct  of  Johnson, 


1 The  following  is  given  by  Boswell,  as  an  instance  of  robust  sophistry: 
— “ Once,  when  I was  pressing  upon  him  with  visible  advantage,  he  stopped 
me  thus  — ‘ My  dear  Boswell,  let’s  have  no  more  of  this ; you’ll  make  noth- 
ing of  it;  I’d  rather  hear  you  whistle  a Scotch  tune.’  ” 


THE  SHILLING  WHIST-CLUB. 


137 


he  always  did  justice  to  his  benevoleuce.  When  royal  pensions 
were  granted  to  Dr.  Johnson  and  Dr.  Shebbeare,  a punster  re- 
marked, that  the  king  had  pensioned  a she-hear  and  a lie-hear ; 
to  which  Goldsmith  replied,  ‘‘Johnson,  to  be  sure,  has  a rough- 
ness in  his  manner,  but  no  man  alive  has  a more  tender  heart. 
He  has  nothing  of  the  hear  but  the  sJdn.^^ 

Goldsmith,  in  ’ conversation,  shone  most  when  he  least  thought 
of  shining ; when  he  gave  up  all  effort  to  appear  wise  and  learned, 
or  to  cope  with  the  oracular  sententiousness  of  Johnson,  and  gave 
way  to  his  natural  impulses.  Even  Boswell  could  perceive  his 
merits  on  these  occasions.  “For  my  part,”  said  he,  condescend- 
ingly, “ I like  very  well  to  hear  honest  Goldsmith  talk  away  care- 
lessly ; ” and  many  a much  wiser  man  than  Boswell  delighted  in 
those  outpourings  of  a fertile  fancy  and  a generous  heart.  In  his 
happy  moods,  Goldsmith  had  an  artless  simplicity  and  buoyant 
good-humor,  that  led  to  a thousand  amusing  blunders  and  whim- 
sical confessions,  much  to  the  entertainment  of  his  intimates ; yet 
in  his  most  thoughtless  garrulity  there  was  occasionally  the  gleam 
of  the  gold  and  the  flash  of  the  diamond. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

Though  Goldsmith’s  pride  and  ambition  led  him  to  mingle 
occasionally  with  high  society,  and  to  engage  in  the  colloquial 
conflicts  of  the  learned  circle,  in  both  of  which  he  was  ill  at  ease 
and  conscious  of  being  undervalued,  yet  he  had  some  social  resorts 
in  which  he  indemnified  himself  for  their  restraints  by  indulging 
his  humor  without  control.  One  of  them  was  a shilling  whist- 
club,  which  held  its  meetings  at  the  Devil  Tavern,  near  Temple 
Bar,  a place  rendered  classic,  we  are  told,  by  a club  held  there  in 
old  times,  to  which  “rare  Ben  Jonson  ” had  furnished  the  rules. 
The  company  was  of  a familiar,  unceremonious  kind,  delighting  in 
that  very  questionable  wit  which  consists  in  playing  off  practical 
jokes  upon  each  other.  Of  one  of  these  Goldsmith  was  made  the 


138 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


butt.  Coming  to  the  club  one  night  in  a hackney-coach,  he  gave 
the  coachman  by  mistake  a guinea  instead  of  a shilling,  which  he 
set  down  at  a dead  loss,  for  there  was  no  likelihood,  he  said,  that 
a fellow  of  this  class  would  have  the  honesty  to  return  the  money. 
On  the  next  club-evening  he  was  told  a person  at  the  street-dooi 
wished  to  speak  with  him.  He  went  forth,  but  soon  returned 
with  a radiant  countenance.  To  his  surprise  and  delight  the 
coachman  had  actually  brought  back  the  guinea.  While  he 
launched  forth  in  praise  of  this  unlooked-for  piece  of  honesty,  he 
declared  it  ought  not  to  go  unrewarded.  Collecting  a small  sum 
from  the  club,  and  no  doubt  increasing  it  largely  from  his  own 
purse,  he  dismissed  the  Jehu  with  many  encomiums  on  his  good 
conduct.  He  was  still  chanting  his  praises,  when  one  of  the  club 
requested  a sight  of  the  guinea  thus  honestly  returned.  To  Gold- 
smith’s confusion  it  proved  to  be  a counterfeit.  The  universal 
burst  of  laughter  which  succeeded,  and  the  jokes  by  which  he  was 
assailed  on  every  side,  showed  him  that  the  whole  was  a hoax, 
and  the  pretended  coachman  as  much  a counterfeit  as  the  guinea. 
He  was  so  disconcerted,  it  is  said,  that  he  soon  beat  a retreat  for 
the  evening. 

Another  of  those  free  and  easy  clubs  met  on  Wednesday  even- 
ings at  the  Globe  Tavern  in  Fleet  Street.  It  was  somewhat  in 
the  style  of  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  : songs,  jokes,  dramatic  imi- 
tations, burlesque  parodies,  and  broad  sallies  of  humor,  formed  a 
contrast  to  the  sententious  morality,  pedantic  casuistry,  and  pol- 
ished sarcasm  of  the  learned  circle.  Here  a huge  “tun  of  man,” 
by  the  name  of  Gordon,  used  to  delight  Goldsmith  by  singing  the 
jovial  song  of  Nottingham  Ale,  and  looking  like  a butt  of  it. 
Here,  too,  a wealthy  pig-butcher,  charmed,  no  doubt,  by  the  mild 
philanthropy  of  The  Traveller^  aspired  to  be  on  the  most  sociable 
footing  with  the  author ; and  here  was  Tom  King,  the  comedian, 
recently  risen  to  consequence  by  his  performance  of  Lord  Ogleby 
in  the  new  comedy  of  The  Clandestine  Marriage. 

A member  of  more  note  was  one  Hugh  Kelly,  a second-rate 
author,  who,  as  he  became  a kind  of  competitor  of  Goldsmith’s, 


GLOVER, 


139 


deserves  particular  mention.  He  was  an  Irishman,  about  twenty 
eight  years  of  age,  originally  apprenticed  to  a staymaker  in  Dub- 
lin ; then  writer  to  a London  attorney ; then  a Grub-Street  hack, 
scribbling  for  magazines  and  newspapers.  Of  late  he  had  set  up 
for  theatrical  censor  and  satirist,  and  in  a paper  called  “ Thespis,” 
in  emulation  of  Churchill’s  Rosciad,  had  harassed  many  of  the 
poor  actors  without  mercy,  and  often  without  wit ; but  had  lav- 
ished his  incense  on  Garrick,  who,  in  consequence,  took  him  into 
favor.  He  was  the  author  of  several  works  of  superficial  merit, 
but  which  had  sufficient  vogue  to  inflate  his  vanity.  This,  how- 
ever, must  have  been  mortified  on  his  first  introduction  to  John- 
son ; after  sitting  a short  time  he  got  up  to  take  leave,  expressing 
a fear  that  a longer  visit  might  be  troublesome.  “Not  in  the 
least,  sir,”  said  the  surly  moralist,  “ I had  forgotten  you  were  in 
the  room.”  Johnson  used  to  speak  of  him  as  a man  who  had 
written  more  than  he  had  read. 

A prime  wag  of  this  club  was  one  of  Goldsmith’s  poor  country- 
men and  hangers-on,  by  the  name  of  Glover.  He  had  originally 
been  educated  for  the  medical  profession,  but  had  taken  in  early 
life  to  the  stage,  though  apparently  without  much  success.  While 
performing  at  Cork,  he  undertook,  partly  in  jest,  to  restore  life  to 
the  body  of  a malefactor,  who  had  just  been  executed.  To  the 
astonishment  of  every  one,  himself  among  the  number,  he  suc- 
ceeded. The  miracle  took  wind.  He  abandoned  the  stage,  re- 
sumed the  wig  and  cane,  and  considered  his  fortune  as  secure. 
Unluckily,  there  were  not  many  dead  people  to  be  restored  to 
life  in  Ireland  ; his  practice  did  not  equal  his  expectation,  so  he 
came  to  London,  where  he  continued  to  dabble  indifferently,  and 
rather  unprofitably,  in  physic  and  literature. 

He  was  a great  frequenter  of  the  Globe  and  Devil  taverns, 
where  he  used  to  amuse  the  company  by  his  talent  at  story-telling 
and  his  powers  of  mimicry,  giving  capital  imitations  of  Garrick, 
Foote,  Colman,  Sterne,  and  other  public  characters  of  the  day. 
He  seldom  happened  to  have  money  enough  to  pay  his  reckoning, 
but  was  always  sure  to  find  some  ready  purse  among  those  who 


140 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


had  been  amused  by  his  humors.  Goldsmith,  of  course,  was  one 
of  the  readiest.  It  was  through  him  that  Glover  was  admitted 
to  the  Wednesday  Club,  of  which  his  theatrical  imitations 
became  the  delight.  Glover,  however,  was  a little  anxious  for 
the  dignity  of  his  patron,  which  appeared  to  him  to  suffer  from 
the  over-familiarity  of  some  of  the  members  of  the  club.  He 
was  especially  shocked  by  the  free  and  easy  tone  in  which 
Goldsmith  was  addressed  by  the  pig-butcher.  “ Come,  Noll,’’ 
would  he  say,  as  he  pledged  him,  here’s  my  service  to  you,  old 
boy ! ” 

Glover  whispered  to  Goldsmith,  that  he  “should  not  allow 
such  liberties.”  “ Let  him  alone,”  was  the  reply,  “you’ll  see 
how  civilly  I’ll  let  him  down.”  After  a time,  he  called  out, 
with  marked  ceremony  and  politeness,  “ Mr.  B.,  I have  the  honor 
of  drinking  your  good  health.”  Alas  ! dignity  was  not  poor 
Goldsmith’s  forte  : he  could  keep  no  one  at  a distance.  “ Thank’ee, 
thank’ee,  Noll,”  nodded  the  pig-butcher,  scarce  taking  the  pipe 
out  of  his  mouth.  “ I don’t  see  the  effect  of  your  reproof,” 
whispered  Glover.  “ I give  it  up,”  replied  Goldsmith,  with  a good- 
humored  shrug ; “ I ought  to  have  known  before  now^  there  is 
no  putting  a pig  in  the  right  way.” 

Johnson  used  to  be  severe  upon  Goldsmith  for  mingling  in 
those  motley  circles,  observing,  that,  having  been  originally 
poor,  he  had  contracted  a love  for  low  company.  Goldsmith, 
however,  was  guided  not  by  a taste  for  what  was  low,  but  for 
what  was  comic  and  characteristic.  It  was  the  feeling  of  the 
artist ; the  feeling  which  furnished  out  some  of  his  best  scenes  in 
familiar  life;  the  feeling  with  which  “rare  Ben  Jonson”  sought 
these  very  haunts  and  circles  in  days  of  yore,  to  study  Every  Man 
in  his  Humor. 

It  was  not  always,  however,  that  the  humor  of  these  associates 
was  to  his  taste  : as  they  became  boisterous  in  their  merriment, 
he  was  apt  to  become  depressed.  “ The  company  of  fools,”  says 
he,  in  one  of  his  essays,  “ may  at  first  make  us  smile,  but  at 
last  never  fails  of  making  us  melancholy.”  “ Often  he  would  be- 


THE  GREAT  CHAM  OF  LITERATURE, 


141 


come  moody,”  says  Glover,  ‘‘and  would  leave  the  party  abruptly 
to  go  home  and  brood  over  his  misfortune.” 

It  is  possible,  however,  that  he  went  home  for  quite  a differen, 
purpose  : to  commit  to  paper  some  scene  or  passage  suggested  for 
his  comedy  of  The  Good-natured  Alan.  The  elaboration  of 
humor  is  often  a most  serious  task ; and  we  have  never  witnessed 
a more  perfect  picture  of  mental  misery  than  was  once  presented 
to  us  by  a popular  dramatic  writer  — still,  we  hope,  living  — 
whom  we  found  in  the  agonies  of  producing  a farce  which  subse- 
quently set  the  theatres  in  a roar. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  comedy  of  The  Good-natured  Alan  was  completed  by 
Goldsmith  early  in  1767,  and  submitted  to  the  perusal  of  John- 
son, Burke,  Reynolds,  and  others  of  the  literary  club,  by  whom 
it  was  heartily  approved.  Johnson,  who  was  seldom  halfway 
either  in  censure  or  applause,  pronounced  it  the  best  comedy  that 
had  been  written  since  The  Provoked  Husband.,  and  promised 
to  furnish  the  prologue.  This  immediately  became  an  object  of 
great  solicitude  with  Goldsmith,  knowing  the  weight  an  introduc- 
tion from  the  Great  Cham  of  literature  would  have  with  the 
public ; but  circumstances  occurred  which  he  feared  might  drive 
the  comedy  and  the  prologue  from  Johnson’s  , thoughts.  The  latter 
was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  the  royal  library  at  the  Queen’s 
(Buckingham)  House,  a noble  collection  of  books,  in  the  formation 
of  which  he  had  assisted  the  librarian,  Mr.  Bernard,  with  his 
advice.  One  evening,  as  he  was  seated  there  by  the  fire  reading,  he 
was  surprised  by  the  entrance  of  the  King  (George  III),  then  a 
young  man,  who  sought  this  occasion  to  have  a conversation  with 
him.  The  conversation  was  varied  and  discursive,  the  King 
shifting  from  subject  to  subject  according  to  his  wont.  “During 
the  whole  interview,”  says  Boswell,  “ Johnson  talked  to  his 
Majesty  with  profound  respect,  but  still  in  his  open,  manly 


142 


OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH. 


manner,  with  a sonorous  voice,  and  never  in  that  subdued  tone 
which  is  commonly  used  at  the  levee  and  in  the  drawing-room. 

‘ I found  his  Majesty  wished  I should  talk,’  said  he,  ‘ and  I made 
it  my  business  to  talk.  I find  it  does  a man  good  to  be  talked 
to  by  his  sovereign.  In  the  first  place,  a man  cannot  be  in  a 
passion.’  ” It  would  have  been  well  for  Johnson’s  colloquial  dis- 
putants, could  he  have  often  been  under  such  decorous  restraint. 
Profoundly  monarchical  in  his  principles,  he  retired  from  the 
interview  highly  gratified  with  the  conversation  of  the  King  and 
with  his  gracious  behavior.  “ Sir,”  said  he  to  the  librarian,  “ they 
may  talk  of  the  King  as  they  will,  but  he  is  the  finest  gentleman  I 
have  ever  seen.”  — “ Sir,”  said  he  subsequently  to  Bennet  Lang- 
ton,  “ his  manners  are  those  of  as  fine  a gentleman  as  we  may 
suppose  Louis  the  Fourteenth  or  Charles  the  Second.” 

While  Johnson’s  face  was  still  radiant  with  the  reflex  of  royalty, 
he  was  holding  forth  one  day  to  a listening  group  at  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds’s,  who  were  anxious  to  hear  every  particular  of  this 
memorable  conversation.  Among  other  questions,  the  King  had 
asked  him  whether  he  was  writing  anything.  His  reply  was, 
that  he  thought  he  had  already  done  his  part  as  a writer.  “ I 
should  have  thought  so,  too,”  said  the  King,  ‘Mf  you  had  not 
written  so  well.”  — ‘‘No  man,”  said  Johnson,  commenting  on 
this  speech,  “ could  have  made  a handsomer  compliment ; and 
it  was  fit  for  a King  to  pay.  It  was  decisive.”  — “ But  did  you 
make  no  reply  to  this  high  compliment?”  asked  one  of  the 
company.  “No,  sir,”  replied  the  profoundly  deferential  Johnson; 
“ when  the  King  had  said  it,  it  was  to  be  so.  It  was  not  for  me 
to  bandy  civilities  with  my  sovereign.” 

During  all  the  time  that  Johnson  was  thus  holding  forth. 
Goldsmith,  who  was  present,  appeared  to  take  no  interest  in 
the  royal  theme,  but  remained  seated  on  a sofa  at  a distance,  in 
a moody  fit  of  abstraction ; at  length  recollecting  himself,  he 
sprang  up,  and  advancing,  exclaimed,  with  what  Boswell  calls 
his  usual  “frankness  and  simplicity,” — “Well,  you  acquitted 
yourself  in  this  conversation  better  than  I should  have  done,  for 


NEGOTIATIONS  WITH  GAIUUCK, 


143 


I should  have  bowed  and  stammered  through  the  whole  of  it.’‘ 
He  afterwards  explained  his  seeming  inattention  by  saying  that 
his  mind  was  completely  occupied  about  his  play,  and  by  fears 
lest  Johnson,  in  his  present  state  of  royal  excitement,  would 
fail  to  furnish  the  much-desired  prologue. 

How  natural  and  truthful  is  this  explanation.  Yet  Boswell 
presumes  to  pronounce  Goldsmith’s  inattention  affected,  and  at- 
tributes it  to  jealousy.  “It  was  strongly  suspected,”  says  he, 
“ that  he  was  fretting  with  chagrin  and  envy  at  the  singular 
honor  Dr.  Johnson  had  lately  enjoyed.”  It  needed  the  littleness 
of  mind  of  Boswell  to  ascribe  such  pitiful  motives  to  Goldsmith, 
and  to  entertain  such  exaggerated  notions  of  the  honor  paid  to 
Dr.  Johnson. 

The  Good-natured  Man  was  now  ready  for  performance,  but 
the  question  was,  how  to  get  it  upon  the  stage.  The  affairs 
of  Covent  Garden,  for  which  it  had  been  intended,  were  thrown 
into  confusion  by  the  recent  death  of  Rich,  the  manager.  Drury 
Lane  was  under  the  management  of  Garrick ; but  a feud,  it  will 
be  recollected,  existed  between  him  and  the  poet,  from  the  animad- 
versions of  the  latter  on  the  mismanagement  of  theatrical 
affairs,  and  the  refusal  of  the  former  to  give  the  poet  his  vote  for 
the  secretaryship  of  the  Society  of  Arts.  Times,  however,  were 
changed.  Goldsmith,  when  that  feud  took  place,  was  an  anony- 
mous writer,  almost  unknown  to  fame,  and  of  no  circulation  in 
society.  Now  he  had  become  a literary  lion ; he  was  a member 
of  the  Literary  Club ; he  was  the  associate  of  Johnson,  Burke, 
Topham  Beauclerc,  and  other  magnates, — in  a word,  he  had  risen 
to  consequence  in  the  public  eye,  and  of  course  was  of  consequence 
in  the  eyes  of  David  Garrick.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  saw  the  lurk- 
ing scruples  of  pride  existing  between  the  author  and  actor,  and 
thinking  it  a pity  that  two  men  of  such  congenial  talents,  and  who 
might  be  so  serviceable  to  each  other,  should  be  kept  asunder  by  a 
worn-out  pique,  exerted  his  friendly  offices  to  bring  them  together. 
The  meeting  took  place  in  Reynolds’s  house  in  Leicester  Square. 
Garrick,  however,  could  not  entirely  put  off  the  mock  majesty  of 


144 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


the  stage ; he  meant  to  be  civil,  but  he  was  rather  too  gracious 
and  condescending.  Tom  Davies,  in  his  Life  of  Garrick^  gives 
an  amusing  picture  of  the  coming  together  of  these  punctilious 
parties.  ‘‘The  manager,’’  says  he,  “was  fully  conscious  of  his 
(Goldsmith’s)  merit,  and  perhaps  more  ostentatious  of  his  abilities 
to  serve  a dramatic  author  than  became  a man  of  his  prudence ; 
Goldsmith  was,  on  his  side,  as  fully  persuaded  of  his  own  impor- 
tance and  independent  greatness.  Mr.  Garrick,  who  had  so  long 
been  treated  with  the  complimentary  language  paid  to  a successful 
patentee  and  admired  actor,  expected  that  the  writer  would  esteem 
the  patronage  of  his  play  a fxvor ; Goldsmith  rejected  all  ideas  of 
kindness  in  a bargain  that  was  intended  to  be  of  mutual  advantage 
to  both  parties,  and  in  this  he  was  certainly  justifiable ; Mr.  Gar- 
rick could  reasonably  expect  no  thanks  for  the  acting  a new  play, 
which  he  would  have  rejected  if  he  had  not  been  convinced  it 
would  have  amply  rewarded  his  pains  and  expense.  I believe  the 
manager  was  willing  to  accept  the  play,  but  he  wished  to  be 
courted  to  it ; and  the  Doctor  was  not  disposed  to  purchase  his 
friendship  by  the  resignation  of  his  sincerity.”  They  separated, 
however,  with  an  understanding  on  the  part  of  Goldsmith  that  his 
play  would  be  acted.  The  conduct  of  Garrick  subsequently  proved 
evasive,  not  through  any  fingerings  of  past  hostility,  but  from 
habitual  indecision  in  matters  of  the  kind,  and  from  real  scruples 
of  delicacy.  He  did  not  think  the  piece  likely  to  succeed  on  the 
stage,  and  avowed  that  opinion  to  Reynolds  and  Johnson, — but 
hesitated  to  say  as  much  to  Goldsmith,  through  fear  of  wounding 
his  feelings.  A further  misunderstanding  was  the  result  of  this 
want  of  decision  and  frankness  ; repeated  interviews  and  some 
correspondence  took  place  without  bringing  matters  to  a point, 
and  in  the  meantime  the  theatrical  season  passed  away. 

Goldsmith’s  pocket,  never  well  supplied,  suffered  grievously  by 
this  delay,  and  he  considered  himself  entitled  to  call  upon  the 
manager,  who  still  talked  of  acting  the  play,  to  advance  him  forty 
pounds  upon  a note  of  the  younger  Newbery.  Garrick  readily 
complied,  but  subsequently  suggested  certain  important  alterations 


THE  AUTHOR  AND  THE  ACTOR, 


145 


in  the  comedy  as  indispensable  to  its  success ; these  were  indig- 
nantly rejected  by  the  author,  but  pertinaciously  insisted  on  by  the 
manager.  Garrick  proposed  to  leave  the  matter  to  the  arbitration 
of  Whitehead,  the  laureate,  who  officiated  as  his  “reader”  and 
elbow-critic.  Goldsmith  was  more  indignant  than  ever,  and  a vio- 
lent dispute  ensued,  which  was  only  calmed  by  the  interference  of 
Burke  and  Reynolds. 

Just  at  this  time,  order  came  out  of  confusion  in  the  affairs  of 
Covent  Garden.  A pique  having  risen  between  Colman  and  Gar- 
rick, in  the  course  of  their  joint  authorship  of  The  Clandestine 
Marriage^  the  former  had  become  manager  and  part- proprietor  of 
Covent  Garden,  and  was  preparing  to  open  a powerful  competition 
with  his  former  colleague.  On  hearing  of  this,  Goldsmith  made 
overtures  to  Colman ; who,  without  waiting  to  consult  his  fellow- 
proprietors,  who  were  absent,  gave  instantly  a favorable  reply. 
Goldsmith  felt  the  contrast  of  this  warm,  encouraging  conduct,  to 
the  chilling  delays  and  objections  of  Garrick.  He  at  once  aban- 
doned his  piece  to  the  discretion  of  Colman.  “ Dear  sir,”  says  he, 
in  a letter  dated  Temple  Garden  Court,  July  9th,  “I  am  very 
much  obliged  to  you  for  your  kind  partiality  in  my  favor,  and  your 
tenderness  in  shortening  the  interval  of  my  expectation.  That  the 
play  is  liable  to  many  objections  I well  know,  but  I am  happy  that 
it  is  in  hands  the  most  capable  in  the  world  of  removing  them. 
If  then,  dear  sir,  you  will  complete  your  ffivor  by  putting  the  piece 
into  such  a state  as  it  may  be  acted,  or  of  directing  me  how  to  do 
it,  I shall  ever  retain  a sense  of  your  goodness  to  me.  And  indeed, 
though  most  probably  this  be  the  last  I shall  ever  write,  yet  I 
can't  help  feeling  a secret  satisfaction  that  poets  for  the  future  are 
likely  to  have  a protector  who  declines'  taking  advantage  of  their 
dreadful  situation  — and  scorns  that  importance  which  may  be 
acquired  by  trifling  with  their  anxieties.” 

The  next  day  Goldsmith  wrote  to  Garrick,  who  was  at  Litchfield, 
informing  him  of  his  having  transferred  his  piece  to  Covent  Garden, 
for  which  it  had  been  originally  wiitten,  and  by  the  patentee  of 
which  it  was  claimed,  observing,  “ As  I found  you  had  very  great 


146 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


difficulties  about  that  piece,  I complied  with  his  desire.  ...  1 

am  extremely  sorry  that  you  should  think  me  warm  at  our  last 
meeting : your  judgment  certainly  ought  to  be  free,  especially  in  a 
matter  which  must  in  some  measure  concern  your  own  credit  and 
interest.  I assure  you,  sir,  I have  no  disposition  to  differ  with 
you  on  this  or  any  other  account,  but  am,  with  an  high  opinion  of 
your  abilities,  and  a very  real  esteem,  sir,  your  most  obedient  humble 

servant.  “Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

In  his  reply,  Garrick  observed,  “ I was,  indeed,  much  hurt  that 
your  warmth  at  our  last  meeting  mistook  my  sincere  and  friendly 
attention  to  your  play  for  the  remains  of  a former  misunderstanding, 
which  I had  as  much  forgot  as  if  it  had  never  existed.  What  I 
said  to  you  at  my  own  house  I now  repeat,  that  I felt  more  pain  in 
giving  my  sentiments  than  you  possibly  would  in  receiving  them. 
It  has  been  the  business,  and  ever  will  be,  of  my  life  to  live  on  the 
best  terms  with  men  of  genius ; and  I know  that  Dr.  Goldsmith 
will  have  no  reason  to  change  his  previous  friendly  disposition 
towards  me,  as  I shall  be  glad  of  every  future  opportunity  to  con- 
vince him  how  much  I am  his  obedient  servant  and  well-wisher. 

“D.  Garrick.” 


CHAPTER  XXL 

Though  Goldsmith’s  comedy  was  now  in  train  to  be  performed, 
it  could  not  be  brought  out  before  Christmas ; in  the  meantime  he 
must  live.  Again,  therefore,  he  had  to  resort  to  literary  jobs  for 
his  daily  support.  These  obtained  for  him  petty  occasional  sums, 
the  largest  of  which  was  ten  pounds,  from  the  elder  Newbery,  for 
an  historical  compilation ; but  this  scanty  rill  of  quasi  patronage, 
so  sterile  in  its  products,  was  likely  soon  to  cease ; Xewbery  being 
too  ill  to  attend  to  business,  and  having  to  transfer  the  whole 
management  of  it  to  his  nephew. 

At  this  time  Tom  Davies,  the  sometime  Roscius,  sometime  bib- 
liopole, stepped  forward  to  Goldsmith’s  relief,  and  proposed  that  he 


TOM  DAVIES. 


147 


should  undertake  an  easy  popular  history  of  Rome  in  two  volumes. 
All  arrangement  was  soon  made.  Goldsmith  undertook  to  com- 
plete it  in  two  years,  if  possible,  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  guineas, 
and  forthwith  set  about  his  task  with  cheerful  alacrity.  As  usual, 
he  sought  a rural  retreat  during  the  summer  months,  where  he 
might  alternate  his  literary  labors  with  strolls  about  the  green 
fields.  “Merry  Islington’’  was  again  his  resort,  but  he  now 
aspired  to  better  quarters  than  formerly,  and  engaged  the  cham- 
bers occupied  occasionally  by  Mr.  Newbery,  in  Canonbury  House, 
or  Castle,  as  it  is  popularly  called.  This  had  been  a hunting-lodge 
of  Queen  Elizabeth,  in  whose  time  it  was  surrounded  by  parks  and 
forests.  In  Goldsmith’s  day,  nothing  remained  of  it  but  an  old 
brick  tower ; it  was  still  in  the  country  amid  rural  scenery,  and 
was  a favorite  nestling-place  of  authors,  publishers,  and  others  of 
the  literary  order. ^ A number  of  these  he  had  for  fellow-occupants 
of  the  castle ; and  they  formed  a temporary  club,  which  held  its 
meetings  at  the  Crown  Tavern,  on  the  Islington  lower  road ; and 
here  he  presided  in  his  own  genial  style,  and  was  the  life  and 
delight  of  the  company. 

The  writer  of  these  pages  visited  old  Canonbury  Castle  some 
years  since,  out  of  regard  to  the  memory  of  Goldsmith.  The 
apartment  was  still  shown  which  the  poet  had  inhabited,  consist- 
ing of  a sitting-room  and  small  bedroom,  with  panelled  wainscots 
and  Gothic  windows.  The  quaintness  and  quietude  of  the  place 
were  still  attractive.  It  was  one  of  the  resorts  of  citizens  on  their 
Sunday  walks,  who  would  ascend  to  the  top  of  the  tower  and 
amuse  themselves  with  reconnoitring  the  city  through  a telescope. 


1 See  on  the  distant  slope,  majestic  shows 
Old  Canonbury’ s tower,  an  ancient  pile 
To  various  fates  assigned  ; and  where  by  turns 
Meanness  and  grandeur  have  alternate  reign’d ; 
Thither,  in  latter  days,  hath  genius  fled 
From  yonder  city,  to  respire  and  die. 

There  the  sweet  bard  of  Auburn  sat,  and  tuned 
The  plaintive  meanings  of  his  village  dirge. 
There  learned  Chambers  treasured  lore  for  merif 
And  Newbery  there  his  A-B-C’s  for  babes. 


148 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Not  far  from  this  tower  were  the  gardens  of  the  White  Conduit 
House,  a Cockney  Elysium,  where  Goldsmith  used  to  figure  in 
the  humbler  days  of  his  fortune.  In  the  first  edition  of  his 
Essays  he  speaks  of  a stroll  in  these  gardens,  where  he  at  that 
time,  no  doubt,  thought  himself  in  perfectly  genteel  society.  After 
his  rise  in  the  world,  however,  he  became  too  knowing  to  speak  of 
such  plebeian  haunts.  In  a new  edition  of  his  Essays,  therefore, 
the  White  Conduit  House  and  its  gardens  disappear,  and  he 
speaks  of  “a  stroll  in  the  Park.” 

While  Goldsmith  was  literally  living  from  hand  to  mouth  by 
the  forced  drudgery  of  the  pen,  his  independence  of  spirit  was  sub- 
jected to  a sore  pecuniary  trial.  It  was  the  opening  of  Lord 
North’s  administration,  a time  of  great  political  excitement.  The 
public  mind  was  agitated  by  the  question  of  American  taxation, 
and  other  questions  of  like  irritating  tendency.  Junius  and  Wilkes 
and  other  powerful  writers  were  attacking  the  administration 
with  all  their  force ; Grub  Street  was  stirred  up  to  its  lowest 
depths ; inflammatory  talent  of  all  kinds  was  in  full  activity,  and 
the  kingdom  was  deluged  with  pamphlets,  lampoons,  and  libels  of 
the  grossest  kinds.  The  ministry  were  looking  anxiously  round 
for  literary  support.  It  was  thought  that  the  pen  of  Goldsmith 
might  be  readily  enlisted.  His  hospitable  friend  and  countryman, 
Robert  Nugent,  politically  known  as  Squire  Gawky,  had  come  out 
strenuously  for  colonial  taxation  ; had  been  selected  for  a lordship 
of  the  board  of  trade,  and  raised  to  the  rank  of  Baron  Nugent  and 
Viscount  Clare.  His  example,  it  was  thought,  would  be  enough 
of  itself  to  bring  Goldsmith  into  the  ministerial  ranks ; and  then 
what  writer  of  the  day  was  proof  against  a full  purse  or  a pension  ? 
Accordingly  one  Parson  Scott,  chaplain  to  Lord  Sandwich,  and 
author  of  “Anti  Sejanus  Panurge,”  and  other  political  libels  in 
support  of  the  administration,  was  sent  to  negotiate  with  the 
poet,  who  at  this  time  was  returned  to  town.  Dr.  Scott,  in  after- 
years,  when  his  political  subserviency  had  been  rewarded  by  two 
fat  crown-livings,  used  to  make  what  he  considered  a good  story 
out  of  this  embassy  to  the  poet.  “ I found  him,”  said  he,  “in  a 


DEATH  OF  JVEWBERV. 


149 


miserable  suit  of  chambers,  in  the  Temple.  I told  him  my  author- 
ity : i told  how  I was  empowered  to  pay  most  liberally  for  his  ex- 
ertions ; and,  would  you  believe  it ! he  was  so  absurd  as  to  say,  ‘ I can 
earn  as  much  as  will  supply  my  wants  without  writing  for  any 
party ; the  assistance  you  offer  is  therefore  unnecessary  to  me  ; ’ — 
and  so  I left  him  in  his  garret ! ” Who  does  not  admire  the 
sturdy  independence  of  poor  Goldsmith  toiling  in  his  garret  for  nine 
guineas  the  job,  and  smile  with  contempt  at  the  indignant  won- 
der of  the  political  divine,  albeit  his  subserviency  tvas  repaid  by 
two  fat  crown-livings  ? 

Not  long  after  this  occurrence.  Goldsmith’s  old  friend,  though 
frugal-handed  employer,  Newbery,  of  picture-book  renown,  closed 
his  mortal  career.  The  poet  has  celebrated  him  as  the  friend  of  all 
mankind  ; he  certainly  lost  nothing  by  his  friendship.  He  coined 
the  brains  of  his  authors  in  the  times  of  their  exigency,  and  made 
them  pay  dear  for  the  plank  put  out  to  keep  them  from  drowning. 
It  is  not  likely  his  death  caused  much  lamentation  among  the 
scribbling  tribe ; we  may  express  decent  respect  for  the  memory 
of  the  just,  but  we  shed  tears  only  at  the  grave  of  the  generous. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

The  comedy  of  The  Good-natured  Man  was  doomed  to  ex- 
perience delays  and  difficulties  to  the  very  last.  Garrick,  notwith- 
standing his  professions,  had  still  a lurking  grudge  against  the 
author,  and  tasked  his  managerial  arts  to  thwart  him  in  his 
theatrical  enterprise.  For  this  purpose  he  undertook  to  build  up 
Hugh  Kelly,  Goldsmith’s  boon  companion  of  the  Wednesday  club, 
as  a kind  of  rival.  Kelly  had  written  a comedy  called  False  Deli- 
cacy^ in  which  were  embodied  all  the  meretricious  qualities  of  the 
sentimental  school.  Garrick,  though  he  had  decried  that  school, 
and  had  brought  out  his  comedy  of  The  Clandestine  Marriage  in 
opposition  to  it,  now  lauded  False  Delicacy  to  the  skies,  and 


150 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


prepared  to  bring  it  out  at  Drury  Lane  with  all  possible  stage- 
effect.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  write  a prologue  and  epilogue 
for  it,  and  to  touch  up  some  parts  of  the  dialogue.  He  had 
become  reconciled  to  his  former  colleague,  Col  man,  and  it  is 
intimated  that  one  condition  in  the  treaty  of  peace  between  these 
potentates  of  the  realms  of  pasteboard  (equally  prone  to  play  into 
each  other’s  hands  with  the  confederate  potentates  on  the  great 
theatre  of  life)  was,  that  Goldsmith’s  play  should  be  kept  back 
until  Kelly’s  had  been  brought  forward. 

In  the  meantime  the  poor  author,  little  dreaming  of  the  deleteri- 
ous influence  at  work  behind’  the  scenes,  saw  the  appointed  time 
arrive  and  pass  by  without  the  performance  of  his  play ; while 
False  Delicacy  was  brought  out  at  Drury  Lane  (January  23,  1768) 
with  all  the  trickery  of  managerial  management.  Houses  were 
packed  to  applaud  it  to  the  echo  ; the  newspapers  vied  with  each 
other  in  their  venal  praises,  and  night  after  night  seemed  to  give 
it  a fresh  triumph. 

While  False  Delicacy  was  thus  borne  on  the  full  tide  of  fictitious 
prosperity,  The  Good-natured  Man  was  creeping  through  the  last 
rehearsals  at  Co  vent  Garden.  The  success  of  the  rival  piece 
threw  a damp  upon  author,  manager,  and  actors.  Goldsmith 
went  about  with  a face  full  of  anxiety ; Colman’s  hopes  in  the 
piece  declined  at  each  rehearsal ; as  to  his  fellow-proprietors,  they 
declared  they  never  entertained  any.  All  the  actors  were  discon- 
tented with  their  parts,  excepting  ISFed  Shuter,  an  excellent  low 
comedian,  and  a pretty  actress  named  Miss  Walford  ; both  of 
whom  the  poor  author  ever  afterward  held  in  grateful  recollection. 

Johnson,  Goldsmith’s  growling  monitor  and  unsparing  castiga- 
tor  in  times  of  heedless  levity,  stood  by  him  at  present  with  that  pro- 
tecting kindness  with  which  he  ever  befriended  him  in  time  of  need. 
He  attended  the  rehearsals ; he  furnished  the  prologue  according 
to  promise  ; he  pish’d  and  pshaw’d  at  any  doubts  and  fears  on 
the  part  of  the  author,  but  gave  him  sound  counsel,  and  held  him 
up  with  a steadfast  and  manly  hand.  Inspirited  by  his  sympathy. 
Goldsmith  plucked  up  new  heart,  and  arrayed  himself  for  the 


“ THE  GOOD-NATURED  MAN."  151 

grand  trial  with  unusual  care.  Ever  since  his  elevation  into  the 
polite  world,  he  had  improved  in  his  wardrobe  and  toilet.  John- 
son could  no  longer  accuse  him  of  being  shabby  in  his  appearance ; 
he  rather  went  to  the  other  extreme.  On  the  present  occasion 
there  is  an  entry  in  the  books  of  his  tailor,  Mr.  William  Filby,  of 
a suit  of  “ Tyrian  bloom,  satin  grain,  and  garter  blue  silk  breeches, 
c£8  2s.  7d.’’  Thus  magnificently  attired,  he  attended  the  theatre 
and  watched  the  reception  of  the  play,  and  the  effect  of  each  indi- 
vidual scene,  with  that  vicissitude  of  feeling  incident  to  his  mer- 
curial nature. 

Johnson’s  prologue  was  solemn  in  itself,  and  being  delivered  by 
Brinsley  in  lugubrious  tones  suited  to  the  ghost  in  Hamlet.,  seemed 
to  throw  a portentous  gloom  on  the  audience.  Some  of  the  scenes 
met  with  great  applause,  and  at  such  times  Goldsmith  was  highly 
elated ; others  went  oft‘  coldly,  or  there  were  slight  tokens  of  dis- 
approbation, and  then  his  spirits  would  sink.  The  fourth  act  saved 
the  piece ; for  Shuter,  who  had  the  main  comic  character  of  Croaker, 
was  so  varied  and  ludicrous  in  his  execution  of  the  scene  in  which 
he  reads  an  incendiary  letter,  that  he  drew  down  thunders  of 
applause.  On  his  coming  behind  the  scenes.  Goldsmith  greeted 
him  with  an  overflowing  heart ; declaring  that  he  exceeded  his 
own  idea  of  the  character,  and  made  it  almost  as  new  to  him  as 
to  any  of  the  audience. 

On  the  whole,  however,  both  the  author  and  his  friends  were 
disappointed  at  the  reception  of  the  piece,  and  considered  it  a 
failure.  Poor  Goldsmith  left  the  theatre  with  his  towering  hopes 
completely  cut  down.  He  endeavored  to  hide  his  mortification, 
and  even  to  assume  an  air  of  unconcern  while  among  his  associates  ; 
but  the  moment  he  was  alone  with  Dr.  Johnson,  in  whose  rough  but 
magnanimous  nature  he  reposed  unlimited  confidence,  he  threw  off 
all  restraint  and  gave  way  to  an  almost  childlike  burst  of  grief. 
Johnson,  who  had  shown  no  want  of  sympathy  at  the  proper 
time,  saw  nothing  in  the  partial  disappointment  of  over-rated  ex- 
pectations to  warrant  such  ungoverned  emotions,  and  rebuked  him 
sternly  for  what  he  termed  a silly  affectation,  saying  that  “No 


152 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


man  should  be  expected  to  sympathize  with  the  sorrows  of 
vanity.’’ 

When  Goldsmith  had  recovered  from  the  blow,  he,  with  his 
usual  unreserve,  made  his  past  distress  a subject  of  amusement  to 
his  friends.  Dining  one  day,  in  company  with  Dr.  Johnson,  at  the 
chaplain’s  table  at  St.  James’s  Palace,  he  entertained  the  com- 
pany with  a particular  and  comic  account  of  all  his  feelings  on  the 
night  of  representation,  and  his  despair  when  the  piece  was  liissed. 
How  he  went,  he  said,  to  the  Literary  Club ; chatted  gayly,  as  if 
nothing  had  gone  amiss ; and,  to  give  a greater  idea  of  his  uncon- 
cern, sang  his  favorite  song  about  an  old  woman  tossed  in  a blan- 
ket seventeen  times  as  high  as  the  moon.  . . . “All  this  while,” 
added  he,  “ I was  suffering  horrid  tortures,  and,  had  I put  a bit 
in  my  mouth,  I verily  believe  it  would  have  strangled  me  on  the 
spot,  I was  so  excessively  ill ; but  I made  more  noise  than  usual 
to  cover  all  that ; so  they  never  perceived  my  not  eating,  nor  sus- 
pected the  anguish  of  my  heart ; but  when  all  were  gone  except 
Johnson  here,  I burst  out  a-crying,  and  even  swore  that  I would 
never  write  again.” 

Dr.  Johnson  sat  in  amaze  at  the  odd  frankness  and  childlike 
self-accusation  of  poor  Goldsmith.  When  the  latter  had  come  to 
a pause,  “All  this.  Doctor,”  said  he,  dryly,  “I  thought  had  been 
a secret  between  you  and  me,  and  I am  sure  I would  not  have 
said  anything  about  it  for  the  world.”  But  Goldsmith  had  no 
secrets : his  follies,  his  weaknesses,  his  errors  were  all  thrown  to 
the  surface ; his  heart  was  really  too  guileless  and  innocent  to 
seek  mystery  and  concealment.  It  is  too  often  the  false,  designing 
man  that  is  guarded  in  his  conduct  and  never  offends  proprieties. 

It  is  singular,  however,  that  Goldsmith,  wlio  thus  in  conversa- 
tion could  keep  nothing  to  himself,  should  be  the  author  of  a 
maxim  which  would  inculcate  the  most  thorough  dissimulation. 
“Men  of  the  world,”  says  he  in  one  of  the  papers  of  the  Bee, 
“ maintain  that  the  true  end  of  speech  is  not  so  much  to  express 
our  wants  as  to  conceal  them.”  How  often  is  this  quoted  as  one 
of  the  subtle  remarks  of  the  fine- wit  ted  Talleyrand  ! 


INTERMEDDLING  OF  THE  PRESS. 


153 


The  Good-natured  Man  was  performed  for  ten  nights  in  succes- 
sion ; the  third,  sixth,  and  ninth  nights  were  for  the  author’s 
benefit ; the  fifth  night  it  was  commanded  by  their  Majesties ; 
after  this  it  was  played  occasionally,  but  rarely,  having  always 
pleased  more  in  the  closet  than  on  the  stage. 

As  to  Kelly’s  comedy,  Johnson  pronounced  it  entirely  devoid  of 
character,  and  it  has  long  since  passed  into  oblivion.  Yet  it  is  an 
instance  how  an  inferior  production,  by  dint  of  puffing  and  trum- 
peting, may  be  kept  up  for  a time  on  the  surface  of  popular 
opinion,  or  rather  of  popular  talk.  What  had  been  done  for 
Fahe  Delicacy  on  the  stage  was  continued  by  the  press.”  The 
booksellers  vied  with  the  manager  in  launching  it  upon  the  town. 
They  announced  that  the  first  impression  of  three  thousand  copies 
was  exhausted  before  two  o’clock  on  the  day  of  publication;  four 
editions,  amounting  to  ten  thousand  copies,  were  sold  in  the 
course  of  the  season ; a public  breakfast  was  given  to  Kelly  at 
the  Chapter  Coffee-House,  and  a piece  of  plate  presented  to  him 
by  the  publishers.  The  comparative  merits  of  the  two  plays  were 
continually  subjects  of  discussion  in  green-rooms,  coffee-houses, 
and  other  places  where  theatrical  questions  were  discussed. 

Goldsmith’s  old  enemy,  Kenrick,  that  “viper  of  the  press,”  en- 
deavored on  this,  as  on  many  other  occasions,  to  detract  from  his 
well-earned  fame;  the  poet  was  excessively  sensitive  to  these 
attacks,  and  had  not  the  art  and  self-command  to  conceal  his 
feelings. 

Some  scribblers  on  the  other  side  insinuated  that  Kelly  had 
seen  the  manuscript  of  Goldsmith’s  play,  while  in  the  hands  of 
Garrick  or  elsewhere,  and  had  borrowed  some  of  the  situations 
and  sentiments.  Some  of  the  wags  of  the  day  took  a mischievous 
pleasure  in  stirring  up  a feud  between  the  two  authors.  Gold- 
smith became  nettled,  though  he  could  scarcely  be  deemed  jealous 
of  one  so  far  his  inferior.  He  spoke  disparagingly,  though  no 
doubt  sincerely,  of  Kelly’s  play  : the  latter  retorted.  Still,  when 
they  met  one  day  behind  the  scenes  of  Covent  Garden,  Gold- 
smith, with  his  customary  urbanity,  congratulated  Kelly  on  his 


154 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


success.  “ If  I thought  you  sincere,  Mr.  Goldsmith,”  replied  the 
other,  abruptly,  “ I should  thank  you.”  Goldsmith  was  not  a man 
to  harbor  spleen  or  ill-will,  and  soon  laughed  at  this  unworthy 
rivalship ; but  the  jealousy  and  envy  awakened  in  Kelly’s  mind 
long  continued.  He  is  even  accused  of  having  given  vent  to  his 
hostility  by  anonymous  attacks  in  the  newspapers,  the  basest 
resource  of  dastardly  and  malignant  spirits  ; but  of  this  there  is 
no  positive  proof. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

The  profits  resulting  from  The  Good-natured  Man  were 
beyond  any  that  Goldsmith  had  yet  derived  from  his  works.  He 
netted  about  four  hundred  pounds  from  the  theatre,  and  one  hun- 
dred pounds  from  his  publisher. 

Five  hundred  pounds  ! and  all  at  one  miraculous  draught ! It 
appeared  to  him  wealth  inexhaustible.  It  at  once  opened  his  heart 
and  hand,  and  led  him  into  all  kinds  of  extravagance.  The  first 
symptom  was  ten  guineas  sent  to  Shuter  for  a box-ticket  for  his 
benefit,  when  The  Good-natured  Man  was  to  be  performed.  The 
next  was  an  entire  change  in  his  domicil.  The  shabby  lodgings 
v*^ith  Jeffs,  the  butler,  in  which  he  had  been  worried  by  Johnson’s 
scrutiny,  were  now  exchanged  for  chambers  more  becoming  a man 
of  his  ample  fortune.  The  apartments  consisted  of  three  rooms  on 
the  second  floor  of  No.  2 Brick  Court,  Middle  Temple,  on  the 
right  hand  ascending  the  staircase,  and  overlooked  the  umbrageous 
walks  of  the  Temple  garden.  The  lease  he  purchased  for  i>400,, 
and  then  went  on  to  furnish  his  rooms  with  mahogany  sofas,  card- 
tables,  and  bookcases ; with  curtains,  mirrors,  and  Wilton  car- 
pets. His  awkward  little  person  was  also  furnished  out  in  a style 
befitting  his  apartment ; for,  in  addition  to  his  suit  of  “Tyrian 
bloom,  satin  grain,”  we  find  another  charged  about  this  time,  in 
the  books  of  Mr.  Filby,  in  no  less  gorgeous  terms,  being  “lined 


FINE  APABTMENTS. 


155 


with  silk  and  furnished  with  gold  buttons.”  Thus  lodged  and 
thus  arrayed,  he  invited  the  visits  of  his  most  aristocratic  ac- 
quaintances, and  no  longer  quailed  beneath  the  courtly  eye  of 
Beauclerc.  He  gave  dinners  to  Johnson,  Reynolds,  Percy,  Bicker- 
staff,  and  other  friends  of  note ; and  supper-parties  to  young  folks 
of  both  sexes.  These  last  were  preceded  by  round  games  of  cards, 
at  which  there  was  more  laughter  than  skill,  and  in  which  the 
sport  was  to  cheat  each  other ; or  by  romping  games  of  forfeits 
and  blind-man’s-buff,  at  which  he  enacted  the  lord  of  misrule. 
Blackstoue,  whose  chambers  were  immediately  below,  and  w^ho 
was  studiously  occupied  on  his  “ Commentaries,”  used  to  complain 
of  the  racket  made  overhead  by  his  revelling  neighbor. 

Sometimes  Goldsmith  would  make  up  a rural  party,  composed 
of  four  or  five  of  his  “ jolly -pigeon  ” friends,  to  enjoy  what  he 
humorously  called  a “ shoemaker’s  holiday.”  These  would  as- 
semble at  his  chambers  in  the  morning,  to  partake  of  a plentiful 
and  rather  expensive  breakfast ; the  remains  of  which,  with  his 
customary  benevolence,  he  generally  gave  to  some  poor  woman  in 
attendance.  The  repast  ended,  the  party  would  set  out  on  foot, 
in  high  spirits,  making  extensive  rambles  by  foot-paths  and  green 
lanes  to  Blackheath,  Wandsworth,  Chelsea,  Hampton  Court, 
Highgate,  or  some  other  pleasant  resort,  within  a few  miles  of 
London.  A simple  but  gay  and  heartily  relished  dinner,  at  a 
country  inn,  crowned  the  excursion.  In  the  evening  they  strolled 
back  to  town,  all  the  better  in  health  and  spirits  for.  a day  spent 
in  rural  and  social  enjoyment.  Occasionally,  when  extravagantly 
inclined,  they  adjourned  from  dinner  to  drink  tea  at  the  White 
Conduit  House  ; and,  now  and  then,  concluded  their  festive  day 
by  supping  at  the  Grecian  or  Temple  Exchange  Coffee-Houses,  or 
at  the  Globe  Tavern,  in  Fleet  Street.  The  whole  expenses  of  the 
day  never  exceeded  a crown,  and  were  often  from  three  and  six- 
pence to  four  shillings;  for  the  best  part  of  their  entertainment, 
sweet  air  and  rural  scenes,  excellent  exercise  and  joyous  conversa- 
tion, cost  nothing. 

One  of  Goldsmith’s  humble  companions,  on  these  excursions. 


156 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


was  his  occasional  amanuensis,  Peter  Barlow,  whose  quaint  pecu- 
liarities afforded  much  amusement  to  the  company.  Peter  w^as 
poor  but  punctilious,  squaring  his  expenses  according  to  his 
means.  He  always  wore  the  same  garb  ; fixed  his  regular  expen- 
diture for  dinner  at  a trifling  sum,  which,  if  left  to  himself,  he 
never  exceeded,  but  which  he  always  insisted  on  paying.  His 
oddities  always  made  him  a welcome  companion  on  the  ‘‘shoe- 
maker’s holidays.’’  The  dinner,  on  these  occasions,  generally  ex- 
ceeded considerably  his  tariff ; he  put  down,  however,  no  more 
than  his  regular  sum,  and  Goldsmith  made  up  the  difference. 

Another  of  these  hangers-on,  for  whom,  on  such  occasions,  he 
was  content  to  “pay  the  shot,”  was  his  country-man  Glover,  of 
whom  mention  has  already  been  made  as  one  of  the  wags  and 
sponges  of  the  Globe  and  Devil  taverns,  and  a prime  mimic  at  the 
Wednesday  Club. 

This  vagabond  genius  has  bequeathed  us  a whimsical  story  of 
one  of  his  practical  jokes  upon  Goldsmith,  in  the  course  of  a rural 
excursion  in  the  vicinity  of  London.  They  had  dined  at  an  inn 
on  Hampstead  Heights,  and  were  descending  the  hill,  when,  in 
passing  a cottage,  they  saw  through  the  open  window  a party  at 
tea.  Goldsmith,  who  was  fatigued,  cast  a wistful  glance  at  the 
cheerful  tea-table.  “ How  I should  like  to  be  of  that  party,”  ex- 
claimed he.  “Nothing  more  easy,”  replied  Glover;  “allow  me  to 
introduce  you.”  So  saying,  he  entered  the  house  with  an  air  of 
the  most  perfect  familiarity,  though  an  utter  stranger,  and  was 
followed  by  the  unsuspecting  Goldsmith,  who  supposed,  of  course, 
that  he  was  a friend  of  the  family.  The  owner  of  the  house  rose 
on  the  entrance  of  the  strangers.  The  undaunted  Glover  shook 
hands  with  him  in  the  most  cordial  manner  possible,  fixed  his  eye 
on  one  of  the  company  who  had  a peculiarly  good-natured  physi- 
ognomy, muttered  something  like  a recognition,  and  forthwith 
launched  into  an  amusing  story,  invented  at  the  moment,  of  some- 
thing which  he  pretended  had  occurred  upon  the  road.  The  host 
supposed  the  new-comers  were  friends  of  his  guests ; the  guests, 
that  they  were  friends  of  the  host.  Glover  did  not  give  them 


GLOVER, 


157 


time  to  find  out  the  truth.  He  followed  one  droll  story  with  an- 
other ; brought  his  powers  of  mimicry  into  play,  and  kept  the 
company  in  a roar.  Tea  was  offered  and  accepted;  an  hour  went 
off*  in  the  most  sociable  manner  imaginable,  at  the  end  of  which 
Glover  bowed  himself  and  his  companion  out  of  the  house  with 
many  facetious  last  words,  leaving  the  host  and  his  company  to 
compare  notes,  and  to  find  out  what  an  impudent  intrusion  they 
had  experienced. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  dismay  and  vexation  of  Goldsmith 
when  triumphantly  told  by  Glover  that  it  was  all  a hoax,  and 
that  he  did  not  know  a single  soul  in  the  house.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  return  instantly  and  vindicate  himself  from  all 
participation  in  the  jest ; but  a few  words  from  his  free-and-easy 
companion  dissuaded  him.  ‘‘Doctor,”  said  he,  coolly,  “we  are 
unknown ; you  quite  as  much  as  I ; if  you  return  and  tell  the 
story,  it  will  be  in  the  newspapers  to-morrow ; nay,  upon  recollec- 
tion, I remember  in  one  of  their  offices  the  face  of  that  squinting 
fellow  who  sat  in  the  corner  as  if  he  was  treasuring  up  my  stories 
for  future  use,  and  we  shall  be  sure  of  being  exposed;  let  us 
therefore  keep  our  own  counsel.” 

This  story  was  frequently  afterward  told  by  Glover,  with  rich 
dramatic  effect,  repeating  and  exaggerating  the  conversation,  and 
mimicking,  in  ludicrous  style,  the  embarrassment,  surprise,  and 
subsequent  indignation  of  Goldsmith. 

It  is  a trite  saying  that  a wheel  cannot  run  in  two  ruts ; nor 
a man  keep  two  opposite  sets  of  intimates.  Goldsmith  sometimes 
found  his  old  friends  of  the  “jolly-pigeon”  order  turning  up  rather 
awkwardly  when  he  was  in  company  with  his  new  aristocratic 
acquaintances.  He  gave  a whimsical  account  of  the  sudden  ap- 
parition of  one  of  them  at  his  gay  apartments  in  the  Temple,  who 
may  have  been  a welcome  visitor  at  his  squalid  quarters  in  Green 
Arbor  Court.  “How  do  you  think  he  served  me?”  said  he  to 
a friend.  “ Why,  sir,  after  staying  away  two  years,  he  came  one 
evening  into  my  chambers,  half  drunk,  as  I was  taking  a glass  of 
wine  with  Topham  Beauclerc  and  General  Oglethorpe ; and  sit- 


158 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


ting  himself  down,  with  most  intolerable  assurance  inquired  after 
my  health  and  literary  pursuits,  as  if  we  were  upon  the  most 
friendly  footing.  I was  at  first  so  much  ashamed  of  ever  having 
known  such  a fellow,  that  I stifled  my  resentment,  and  drew  him 
into  a conversation  on  such  topics  as  I knew  he  could  talk  upon ; 
in  which,  to  do  him  justice,  he  acquitted  himself  very  reputably ; 
when  all  of  a sudden,  as  if  recollecting  something,  he  pulled  two 
papers  out  of  his  pocket,  which  he  presented  to  me  with  great 
ceremony,  saying,  ‘ here,  my  dear  friend,  is  a quarter  of  a pound 
of  tea,  and  a half  pound  of  sugar,  I have  brought  you ; for 
though  it  is  not  in  my  power  at  present  to  pay  you  the  two 
guineas  you  so  generously  lent  me,  you,  nor  any  man  else,  shall 
ever  have  it  to  say  that  I want  gratitude.’  This,”  added  Gold- 
smith, “ was  too  much.  I could  no  longer  keep  in  my  feelings, 
but  desired  him  to  turn  out  of  my  chambers  directly ; which  he 
very  coolly  did,  taking  up  his  tea  and  sugar ; and  I never  saw 
him  afterwards.” 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

The  heedless  expenses  of  Goldsmith,  as  may  easily  be  sup- 
posed, soon  brought  him  to  the  end  of  his  “prize-money,”  but 
when  his  purse  gave  out  he  drew  upon  futurity,  obtaining  ad- 
vances from  his  booksellers  and  loans  from  his  friends  in  the 
confident  hope  of  soon  turning  up  another  trump.  The  debts 
which  he  thus  thoughtlessly  incurred  in  consequence  of  a tran- 
sient gleam  of  prosperity  embarrassed  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life ; 
so  that  the  success  of  the  Good-natured  Man  may  be  said  to 
have  been  ruinous  to  him. 

He  was  soon  obliged  to  resume  his  old  craft  of  book-building, 
and  set  about  his  Hhtory  of  Rome,  undertaken  for  Davies. 

It  was  his  custom,  as  we  have  shown,  during  the  summer-time, 
when  pressed  by  a multiplicity  of  literary  jobs,  or  urged  to  the 


DEATH  OF  HENRY  GOLDSMITH. 


159 


accomplishment  of  some  particular  task,  to  take  country  lodgings 
a few  miles  from  town,  generally  on  the  Harrow  or  Edgeware 
roads,  and  bury  himself  there  for  weeks  and  months  together. 
Sometimes  he  would  remain  closely  occupied  in  his  room,  at 
other  times  he  would  stroll  out  along  the  lanes  and  hedgerows, 
and  taking  out  paper  and  pencil,  note  down  thoughts  to  be  ex- 
panded and  connected  at  home.  His  summer  retreat  for  the 
present  year,  1768,  was  a little  cottage  with  a garden,  pleasantly 
situated  about  eight  miles  from  town  on  the  Edgeware  road.  He 
took  it  in  conjunction  with  a Mr.  Edmund  Botts,  a barrister  and 
man  of  letters,  his  neighbor  in  the  Temple,  having  rooms  imme- 
diately opposite  him  on  the  same  floor.  They  had  become  cordial 
intimates,  and  Botts  was  one  of  those  with  whom  Goldsmith 
now  and  then  took  the  friendly  but  pernicious  liberty  of  borrow- 
ing. 

The  cottage  which  they  had  hired  belonged  to  a rich  shoemaker 
of  Piccadilly,  who  had  embellished  his  little  domain  of  half  an 
acre  with  statues,  and  jets,  and  all  the  decorations  of  landscape 
gardening ; in  consequence  of  which  Goldsmith  gave  it  the  name 
of  The  Shoemaker’s  Paradise.  As  his  fellow-occupant,  Mr. 
Botts,  drove  a gig,  he  sometimes,  in  an  interval  of  literary  labor, 
accompanied  him  to  town,  partook  of  a social  dinner  there,  and 
returned  with  him  in  the  evening.  On  one  occasion,  when  they 
had  probably  lingered  too  long  at  the  table,  they  came  near 
breaking  their  necks  on  their  way  homeward  by  driving  against 
a post  on  the  side-walk,  while  Botts  was  proving  by  the  force  of 
legal  eloquence  that  they  were  in  the  very  middle  of  the  broad 
Edgeware  road. 

In  the  course  of  this  summer.  Goldsmith’s  career  of  gayety  was 
suddenly  brought  to  a pause  by  intelligence  of  the  death  of  his 
brother  Henry,  then  but  forty-flve  years  of  age.  He  had  led  a 
quiet  and  blameless  life  amid  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  fulfilling 
the  duties  of  village  pastor  with  unaffected  piety ; conducting  the 
school  at  Lissoy  with  a degree  of  industry  and  ability  that  gave 
it  celebrity,  and  acquitting  himself  in  all  the  duties  of  life  witli 


160 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


undeviatiiig  rectitude  and  the  mildest  benevolence.  How  truly 
Goldsmith  loved  and  venerated  him  is  evident  in  all  his  letters 
and  throughout  his  works  ; in  which  his  brother  continually  forms 
his  model  for  an  exemplification  of  all  the  most  endearing  of  the 
Christian  virtues ; yet  his  affection  at  his  death  was  embittered 
by  the  fear  that  he  died  with  some  doubt  upon  his  mind  of  the 
warmth  of  his  affection.  Goldsmith  had  been  urged  by  his  friends 
in  Ireland,  since  his  elevation  in  the  world,  to  use  his  influence 
with  the  great,  which  they  supposed  to  be  all-powerful,  in  favor 
of  Henry,  to  obtain  for  him  church-preferment.  He  did  exert 
himself  as  far  as  his  diffident  nature  would  permit,  but  without 
success  ; we  have  seen  that,  in  the  case  of  the  Earl  of  Northum- 
berland, when,  as  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Ireland,  that  nobleman 
proffered  him  his  patronage,  he  asked  nothing  for  himself,  but 
only  spoke  on  behalf  of  his  brother.  Still  some  of  his  friends, 
ignorant  of  what  he  had  done  and  of  how  little  he  was  able 
to  do,  accused  him  of  negligence.  It  is  not  likely,  however, 
that  his  amiable  and  estimable  brother  joined  in  the  accusa- 
tion. 

To  the  tender  and  melancholy  recollections  of  his  early  days 
awakened  by  the  death  of  this  loved  companion  of  his  childhood, 
we  may  attribute  some  of  the  most  heartfelt  passages  in  his 
Deserted  Village,  Much  of  that  poem  we  are  told  was  composed 
this  summer,  in  the  course  of  solitary  strolls  about  the  green 
lanes  and  beautifully  rural  scenes  of  the  neighborhood ; and  thus 
much  of  the  softness  and  sweetness  of  English  landscape  became 
blended  with  the  ruder  features  of  Lissoy.  It  was  in  these  lonely 
and  subdued  moments,  when  tender  regret  was  half-mingled  with 
self-upbraiding,  that  he  poured  forth  that  homage  of  the  heart  ren- 
dered as  it  were  at  the  grave  of  his  brother.  The  picture  of  the 
village  pastor  in  this  poem,  which  we  have  already  hinted  was  taken 
in  part  from  the  character  of  his  father,  embodied  likewise  the 
recollections  of  his  brother  Henry  ; for  the  natures  of  the  father 
and  son  seem  to  have  been  identical.  In  the  following  lines,  how- 
ever, Goldsmith  evidently  contrasted  the  quiet  settled  life  of  his 


TRIBUTE  TO  HIS  BROTHER'S  MEMORY.  161 


brother,  passed  at  home  in  the  benevolent  exercise  of  the  Christian 
duties,  with  his  own  restless  vagrant  career : — 

“ Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race, 

Nor  e’er  had  changed,  nor  wished  to  change  his  place.” 

To  us  the  whole  character  seems  traced  as  it  were  in  an  expiatory 
spirit ; as  if,  conscious  of  his  own  wandering  restlessness,  he 
sought  to  humble  himself  at  the  shrine  of  excellence  which  he  had 
not  been  able  to  practise  : — 

“ At  church  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace. 

His  looks  adorn’d  the  venerable  place  ; 

Truth  from  his  lips  prevail’d  with  double  sway. 

And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain’d  to  pray. 

The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man. 

With  steady  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran ; 

Even  children  follow’d,  with  endearing  wile, 

And  pluck’d  his  gown,  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile  ; 

His  ready  smile  a parent’s  warmth  express’d, 

Their  welfare  pleas’d  him,  and  their  cares  distress’d  ; 

To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given, 

But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

And,  as  a bird  each  fond  endearment  tries 
To  tempt  its  new-fledged  offspring  to  the  skies, 

He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

In  October  Goldsmith  returned  to  town  and  resumed  his  usual 
haunts.  We  hear  of  him  at  a dinner  given  by  his  countryman 
Isaac  Bickerstaff,  author  of  Love  in  a Village^  Lionel  and 
Clarissa,  and  other  successful  dramatic  pieces.  The  dinner  was 
to  be  followed  by  the  reading  by  Bickerstaff  of  a new  play. 
Among  the  guests  was  one  Paul  Hiffernan,  likewise  an  Irishman ; 
somewhat  idle  and  intemperate ; who  lived  nobody  knew  how  nor 
where,  sponging  wherever  he  had  a chance,  and  often  of  course 


162 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


upon  Goldsmith,  who  was  ever  the  vagaboncrs  friend,  or  rather 
victim.  Hiffernan  was  something  of  a physician,  and  elevated  the 
emptiness  of  his  purse  into  the  dignity  of  a disease,  which  he 
termed  impecuniosit^,  and  against  which  he  claimed  a right  to 
call  for  relief  from  the  healthier  purses  of  his  friends.  He  was  a 
scribbler  for  the  newspapers,  and  latterly  a dramatic  critic,  which 
had  probably  gained  him  an  invitation  to  the  dinner  and  reading. 
The  wine  and  wassail,  however,  befogged  his  senses.  Scarce  had 
the  author  got  into  the  second  act  of  his  play,  when  Hiffernan 
began  to  nod,  and  at  length  snored  outright.  Bickerstaff  was 
embarrassed,  but  continued  to  read  in  a more  elevated  tone.  The 
louder  he  read,  the  louder  Hiffernan  snored ; until  the  author 
came  to  a pause.  ‘‘  Never  mind  the  brute,  Bick,  but  go  on,’^ 
cried  Goldsmith.  “He  would  have  served  Homer  just  so  if  he 
were  here  and  reading  his  own  works. 

Kenrick,  Goldsmith’s  old  enemy,  travestied  this  anecdote  in  the 
following  lines,  pretending  that  the  poet  had  compared  his  country- 
man  Bickerstaff*  to  Homer. 

‘‘What  are  your  Bretons,  Romans,  Grecians, 

Compared  with  thorough-bred  Milesians  ! 

Step  into  Griffin’s  shop,  he’ll  tell  ye 
Of  Goldsmith,  Bickerstaff,  and  Kelly  . . . 

And,  take  one  Irish  evidence  for  t’other, 

Ev’n  Homer’s  self  is  but  their  foster-brother.’' 

Johnson  was  a rough  consoler  to  a man  when  wincing  under  an 
attack  of  this  kind.  “ Never  mind,  sir,”  said  he  to  Goldsmith, 
when  he  saw  that  he  felt  the  sting.  “ A man  whose  business  it  is 
to  be  talked  of  is  much  helped  by  being  attacked.  Fame,  sir,  is 
a shuttlecock  ; if  it  be  struck  only  at  one  end  of  the  room,  it  will 
soon  fall  to  the  ground ; to  keep  it  up,  it  must  be  struck  at  both 
ends.” 

Bickerstaff,  at  the  time  of  which  we  are  speaking,  was  in  high 
vogue,  the  associate  of  the  first  wits  of  the  day ; a few  years 
afterwards  he  was  obliged  to  fly  the  country  to  escape  the 
punishment  of  an  infamous  crime,  Johnson  expressed  great 


THE  BLOOM-COLOEET)  COAT. 


163 


astonishment  at  hearing  the  offence  for  wliich  he  had  fled. 
“Why,  sir?”  said  Thrale ; “he  had  long  been  a suspected  man.” 
Perhaps  there  was  a knowing  look  on  the  part  of  the  eminent 
brewer,  which  provoked  a somewhat  contemptuous  reply.  “By 
those  who  look  close  to  the  ground,”  said  Johnson,  “ dirt  will  some- 
times be  seen ; I hope  I see  things  from  a greater  distance.” 

We  have  already  noticed  the  improvement,  or  rather  the  in- 
creased expense,  of  Goldsmith’s  wardrobe  since  his  elevation  into 
polite  society.  “ He  was  fond,”  says  one  of  his  contemporaries, 
“ of  exhibiting  his  muscular  little  person  in  the  gayest  apparel 
of  the  day,  to  which  was  added  a bag-wig  -and  sword.”  Thus 
arrayed,  he  used  to  figure  about  in  the  sunshine  in  the  Temple 
Gardens,  much  to  his  own  satisfaction,  but  to  the  amusement  of 
his  acquaintances. 

Boswell,  in  Ids  memoirs,  has  rendered  one  of  his  suits  forever 
famous.  That  worthy,  on  the  16th  of  October  in  this  same  year, 
gave  a dinner  to  Johnson,  Goldsmith,  Reynolds,  Garrick,  Murphy, 
Bickerstaff,  and  Davies.  Goldsmith  was  generally  apt  to  bustle 
in  at  the  last  moment,  when  the  guests  were  taking  their  seats  at 
table ; but  on  this  occasion  he  was  unusually  early.  While  wait- 
ing for  some  lingerers  to  arrive,  “ he  strutted  about,”  says  Bos- 
well, “ bragging  of  his  dress,  and  I believe  was  seriously  vain  of 
it,  for  his  mind  was  undoubtedly  prone  to  such  impressions. 
‘ Come,  come,’  said  Garrick,  ‘ talk  no  more  of  that.  You  are 
perhaps  the  worst  — eh,  eh  ? ’ Goldsmitii  was  eagerly  attempt- 
ing to  interrupt  him,  when  Garrick  went  on,  laughing  ironically. 
‘Nay,  you  will  always  look  like  a gentleman  ; but  I am  talking 
of  your  being  well  or  ill  dressed.^  ‘Well,  let  me  tell  you,’  said 
Goldsmith,  ‘ when  the  tailor  brought  home  my  bloom-colored  coat, 
he  said,  “ Sir,  I have  a favor  to  beg  of  you ; when  anybody  asks 
you  who  made  your  clothes,  be  pleased  to  mention  John  Filby,  at 
the  Harrow,  in  Water  Lane.”’  ‘Why,  sir,’  cried  Johnson,  ‘that 
was  because  he  knew  the  strange  color  would  attract  crowds  to 
gaze  at  it,  and  thus  they  might  hear  of  him,  and  see  how  well  he 
could  make  a coat  of  so  absurd  a color.’  ” 


164 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


But  though  Goldsmith  might  permit  this  raillery  on  the  part 
of  his  friends,  he  was  quick  to  resent  any  personalities  of  the  kind 
from  strangers.  As  he  was  one  day  walking  the  Strand  in  grand 
array  with  bag-wig  and  sword,  he  excited  the  merriment  of  two 
coxcombs,  one  of  whom  called  to  the  other  to  ‘‘  look  at  that  fly 
with  a long  pin  stuck  through  it.^^  Stung  to  the  quick.  Gold- 
smith’s first  retort  was  to  caution  the  passers-by  to  be  on  their 
guard  against  “that  brace  of  disguised  pickpockets,”  — his  next 
was  to  step  into  the  middle  of  the  street,  where  there  was  room 
for  action,  half-draw  his  sword,  and  beckon  the  joker,  who  was 
armed  in  like  manner,  to  follow  him.  This  was  literally  a war  of 
wit  which  the  other  had  not  anticipated.  He  had  no  inclination 
to  push  the  joke  to  such  an  extreme,  but  abandoning  the  ground, 
sneaked  off‘  with  his  brother-wag  amid  the  hootings  of  the 
spectators. 

This  proneness  to  finery  in  dress,  however,  which  Boswell  and 
others  of  Goldsmith’s  contemporaries,  who  did  not  understand  the 
secret  plies  of  his  character,  attributed  to  vanity,  arose,  we  are 
convinced,  from  a widely  different  motive.  It  was  from  a painful 
idea  of  his  own  personal  defects,  which  had  been  cruelly  stamped 
upon  his  mind  in  his  boyhood,  by  the  sneers  and  jeers  of  his  play- 
mates, and  had  been  grounded  deeper  into  it  by  rude  speeches 
made  to  him  in  every  step  of  his  struggling  career,  until  it  had 
become  a constant  cause  of  awkwardness  and  embarrassment. 
This  he  had  experienced  the  more  sensibly  since  his  reputation 
had  elevated  him  into  polite  society ; and  he  was  constantly  en- 
deavoring by  the  aid  of  dress  to  acquire  that  personal  acceptabil- 
ity^ if  we  may  use  the  phrase,  which  nature  had  denied  him.  If 
ever  he  betrayed  a little  self-complacency  on  first  turning  out  in  a 
new  suit,  it  may,  perhaps,  have  been  because  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
achieved  a triumph  over  his  ugliness. 

There  were  circumstances  too,  about  the  time  of  which  we  are 
treating,  which  may  have  rendered  Goldsmith  more  than  usually 
attentive  to  his  personal  appearance.  He  had  recently  made  the 
acquaintance  of  a most  agreeable  family  from  Devonshire,  which 


THE  HOllNECKS, 


165 


he  met  at  the  house  of  his  friend,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  It  con- 
sisted of  Mrs.  Horiieck,  widow  of  Captain  Kane  Horneck ; two 
daughters,  seventeen  and  nineteen  years  of  age  ; and  an  only  son, 
Charles,  tiie  Captain  in  Lace^  as  his  sisters  playfully  and  some- 
what proudly  called  him,  he  having  lately  entered  the  Guards. 
The  daughters  are  described  as  uncommonly  beautiful,  intelligent, 
sprightly,  and  agreeable.  Catharine,  the  eldest,  went  among  her 
friends  by  the  name  of  Little  Comedy^  indicative,  very  probably, 
of  her  disposition.  She  was  engaged  to  William  Henry  Bunbiiry, 
second  son  of  a Suffolk  baronet.  The  hand  and  heart  of  her  sister 
Mary  were  yet  unengaged,  although  she  bore  the  by-name  among 
her  friends  of  the  Jessamy  Bride.  Tliis  family  was  prepared,  by 
their  intimacy  with  Reynolds  and  his  sister,  to  appreciate  the 
merits  of  Goldsmith.  The  poet  had  always  been  a chosen  friend 
of  the  eminent  painter ; and  Miss  Reynolds,  as  we  have  shown, 
ever  since  she  had  heard  his  poem  of  The  Traveller  read  aloud, 
had  ceased  to  consider  him,  ugly.  The  Hornecks  were  equally 
capable  of  forgetting  his  person  in  admiring  his  works.  On  be- 
coming acquainted  with  him,  too,  they  were  delighted  with  his 
guileless  simplicity,  his  buoyant  good-nature,  and  his  innate  be- 
nevolence ; and  an  enduring  intimacy  soon  sprang  up  between 
them.  For  once  poor  Goldsmith  had  met  with  polite  society, 
with  which  he  was  perfectly  at  home,  and  by  which  he  was  fully 
appreciated  ; for  once  he  had  met  with  lovely  women,  to  whom 
his  ugly  features  were  not  repulsive.  A proof  of  the  easy  and 
playful  terms  in  which  he  was  with  them,  remains  in  a whimsical 
epistle  in  verse,  of  which  the  following  was  the  occasion.  A 
dinner  was  to  be  given  to  their  family  by  a Dr.  Baker,  a friend  of 
their  mother’s,  at  which  Reynolds  and  Angelica  Kauffman  were  to 
be  present.  The  young  ladies  were  eager  to  have  Goldsmith  of 
the  party,  and  their  intimacy  with  Dr.  Baker  allowing  them  to 
take  the  liberty,  they  wrote  a joint  invitation  to  the  poet  at  the 
last  moment.  It  came  too  late,  and  drew  from  him  the  following 
reply ; on  the  top  of  which  was  scrawled,  This  is  a poem  ! 
This  is  a copy  of  verses  ! ” 


166 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“ Your  mandate  I got, 

You  may  all  go  to  pot ; 

Had  your  senses  been  right, 
You’d  have  sent  before  night: 
So  tell  Horneck  and  Nesbitt, 
And  Baker  and  his  bit. 

And  Kauffman  beside. 

And  the  Jessamy  Bride, 

With  the  rest  of  the  crew. 

The  Reynoldses  too, 


From  wisdom  to  stray. 
And  Angelica’s  whim 
To  befrolic  like  him  ; 


Tell  each  other  to  rue 
Your  Devonshire  crew. 
For  sending  so  late 


TAttle  Comedy\^  face. 


To  one  of  my  state. 

But  ’tis  Reynolds’s  way 


And  the  Captain  in  Lace, — 


But  alas  ! your  good  worships,  how  could  they  be  wiser, 

When  both  have  been  spoil’d  in  to-day’s  • Advertiser  i 

It  has  been  intimated  that  the  intimacy  of  poor  Goldsmith 
with  the  Miss  Hornecks,  which  began  in  so  sprightly  a vein, 
gradually  assumed  something  of  a more  tender  nature,  and  that 
he  was  not  insensible  to  the  fascinations  of  the  younger  sister. 
This  may  account  for  some  of  the  phenomena  which  about  this 
time  appeared  in  his  wardrobe  and  toilet.  During  the  first  year 
of  his  acquaintance  with  these  lovely  girls,  the  tell-tale  book  of 
his  tailor,  Mr.  William  Filby,  displays  entries  of  four  or  five  full 
suits,  besides  separate  articles  of  dress.  Among  the  items  we 
find  a green  half-trimmed  frock  and  breeches,  lined  with  silk ; 
a (pieen’s-blue  dress  suit ; a half-dress  suit  of  ratteen,  lined  with 
satin ; a pair  of  silk  stocking-breeches,  and  another  pair  of  a 
bloom-color.  Alas  ! poor  Goldsmith  ! how  much  of  this  silken 
finery  was  dictated,  not  by  vanity,  but  humble  consciousness  of 
thy  defects  ; how  much  of  it  was  to  atone  for  the  uncouth  ness  of 
thy  person,  and  to  win  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  Jessamy  Bride  ! 

iThe  following  lines  had  appeared  in  that  day’s  “ Advertiser,”  on  the 
portrait  of  Sir  Joshua  by  Angelica  Kauffman  : — 


“While  fair  Angelica,  with  matchless  grace, 

Paints  Conw'ay’s  burly  form  and  Stanhope’s  face: 
Our  hearts  to  beauty  willing  homage  pay. 

We  praise,  admire,  and  gaze  our  souls  away. 

But  when  the  likeness  she  hath  done  for  thee, 

O Reynolds!  with  astonishment  we  see, 

Forced  to  submit,  with  all  our  pride  we  own. 
Such  strength,  such  harmony,  excelled  by  none, 
And  thou  art  rivalled  by  thyself  alone.” 


THE  HOMAN  HISTORY. 


167 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

In  the  winter  of  1768-69  Goldsmith  occupied  himself  at  his 
quarters  in  the  Temple,  slowly  “ building  up  ’’  his  Roman  His- 
tory. We  have  pleasant  views  of  him  in  this  learned  and  half- 
cloistered  retreat  of  wits  and  lawyers  and  legal  students,  in  the 
reminiscences  of  Judge  Day  of  the  Irish  Bench,  who,  in  his  ad- 
vanced age,  delighted  to  recall  the  days  of  his  youth,  when  he  was 
a Templar,  and  to  speak  of  the  kindness  with  which  he  and  his 
fellow-student,  Grattan,  were  treated  by  the  poet.  “ I was  just 
arrived  from  college,’’  said  he,  “ full  freighted  with  academic 
gleanings,  and  our  author  did  not  disdain  to  receive  from  me 
some  opinions  and  bints  towards  his  Greek  and  Roman  histories. 
Being  .then  a young  man,  I felt  much  flattered  by  the  notice  of 
so  celebrated  a person.  He  took  great  delight  in  the  conversation 
of  Grattan,  whose  brilliancy  in  the  morning  of  life  furnished  full 
earnest  of  the  unrivalled  splendor  which  awaited  his  meridian  ; 
and  finding  us  dwelling  together  in  Essex  Court,  near  himself, 
where  he  frequently  visited  my  immortal  friend,  his  warm  heart 
became  naturally  prepossessed  towards  the  associate  of  one  whom 
he  so  much  admired.” 

The  Judge  goes  on,  in  his  reminiscences,  to  give  a picture  of 
Goldsmith’s  social  habits,  similar  in  style  to  those  already  fur- 
nished. He  frequented  much  the  Grecian  Coffee-House,  then  the 
favorite  resort  of  the  Irish  and  Lancashire  Templars.  He  de- 
lighted in  collecting  his  friends  around  him  at  evening  parties  at 
his  chambers,  where  he  entertained  them  with  a cordial  and  un- 
ostentatious hospitality.  “Occasionally,”  adds  the  Judge,  “he 
amused  them  with  his  flute,  or  with  whist,  neither  of  which 
he  played  well,  particularly  the  latter,  but,  on  losing  his  money,  he 
never  lost  his  temper.  In  a run  of  bad  luck  and  worse  play,  he 
would  fling  his  cards  upon  the  floor  and  exclaim,  ‘ Byefore  George, 
I ought  forever  to  renounce  thee,  fickle,  faithless  fortune.’  ” 

The  Judge  was  aware,  at  the  time,  that  all  the  learned  labor 


168 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


of  poor  Goldsmith  upon  his  Roman  History  was  mere  hack-work 
to  recruit  his  exhausted  finances.  His  purse  replenished,”  adds 
he,  “ by  labors  of  this  kind,  the  season  of  relaxation  and  pleasure 
took  its  turn,  in  attending  the  theatres,  Ranelagh,  Vauxhall,  and 
other  scenes  of  gayety  and  amusement.  Whenever  his  funds  were 
dissipated,  — and  they  fled  more  rapidly  from  being  the  dupe  of 
many  artful  persons,  male  and  female,  who  practised  upon  his 
benevolence,  — he  returned  to  his  literary  labors,  and  shut  himself 
up  from  society  to  provide  fresh  matter  for  his  bookseller,  and 
fresh  supplies  for  himself.” 

How  completely  had  the  young  student  discerned  the  charac*- 
teristics  of  poor,  genial,  generous,  drudging,  holiday-loving  Gold- 
smith ; toiling,  that  he  might  play ; earning  his  bread  by  the 
sweat  of  his  brains,  and  then  throwing  it  out  of  the  window. 

The  Roman  History  was  published  in  the  middle  of  May,  in 
two  volumes  of  five  hundred  pages  each.  It  was  brought  out 
without  parade  or  pretension,  and  was  announced  as  for  the  use 
of  schools  and  colleges ; but,  though  a work  written  for  bread, 
not  fame,  such  is  its  ease,  perspicuity,  good  sense,  and  the  de- 
lightful simplicity  of  its  style,  that  it  was  well  received  by  the 
critics,  commanded  a prompt  and  extensive  sale,  and  has  ever 
since  remained  in  the  hands  of  young  and  old. 

Johnson,  who,  as  we  have  before  remarked,  rarely  praised  or 
dispraised  things  by  halves,  broke  forth  in  a warm  eulogy  of  the 
author  and  the  work,  in  a conversation  with  Boswell,  to  the  great 
astonishment  of  the  latter.  ‘‘Whether  we  take  Goldsmith,”  said 
he,  “as  a poet,  as  a comic  writer,  or  as  an  historian,  he  stands 
in  the  first  class.”  Boswell.  — “ An  historian ! My  dear  sir, 
you  surely  will  not  rank  his  compilation  of  the  Roman  History 
with  the  works  of  other  historians  of  this  age.”  Johnson.  — 
“ Why,  who  are  before  him  1 ” Boswell.  — “ Hume  — Robertson 
— Lord  Lyttelton.”  Johnson  (his  antipathy  against  the  Scotch 
beginning  to  rise).  — “I  have  not  read  Hume ; but  doubtless 
Goldsmith’s  History  is  better  than  the  verbiage  of  Robertson, 
or  the  foppery  of  Dairy mple.”  Boswell.  — “ Will  you  not  admit 


^^TIISTOHY  OF  ANIMATED  NATURE. 


169 


the  superiority  of  Robertson,  in  whose  liistory  we  find  such  pene- 
tration, such  painting?”  Johnson.  — ‘‘Sir,  you  must  consider 
how  that  penetration  and  that  painting  are  employed.  It  is  not 
history,  it  is  imagination.  He  who  describes  what  he  never  saw, 
draws  from  fancy.  Robertson  paints  minds  as  Sir  Joshua  paints 
faces,  in  a history-piece ; he  imagines  an  heroic  countenance. 
You  must  look  upon  Robertson’s  work  as  romance,  and  try  it  by 
that  standard.  History  it  is  not.  Besides,  sir,  it  is  the  great 
excellence  of  a writer  to  put  into  his  book  as  much  as  his  book 
will  hold.  Goldsmith  has  done  this  in  his  History.  Now 
Robertson  might  have  put  twice  as  much  in  his  book.  Robert- 
son is  like  a man  who  has  packed  gold  in  wool ; the  wool  takes 
up  more  room  than  the  gold.  No,  sir,  I always  thought  Robert- 
son would  be  crushed  with  his  own  weight  — would  be  buried 
under  his  own  ornaments.  Goldsmith  tells  you  shortly  all  you 
want  to  know ; Robertson  detains  you  a great  deal  too  long. 
No  man  will  read  Robertson’s  cumbrous  detail  a second  time; 
but  Goldsmith’s  plain  narrative  will  please  again  and  again.  I 
would  say  to  Robertson  what  an  old  tutor  of  a college  said  to  one 
of  his  pupils,  ‘ Read  over  your  compositions,  and  whenever  you 
meet  with  a passage  which  you  think  is  particularly  fine,  strike 
it  out ! ’ Goldsmith’s  abridgment  is  better  than  that  of  Lucius 
Florus  or  Eutropius;  and  I will  venture  to  say,  that,  if  you  com- 
pare him  with  Vertot  in  the  same  places  of  the  Roman  History, 
you  will  find  that  he  excels  Vertot.  Sir,  he  has  the  art  of  com- 
piling, and  of  saying  everything  he  has  to  say  in  a pleasing 
manner.  He  is  now  writing  a Natural  History,  and  will  make 
it  as  entertaining  as  a Persian  tale.” 

The  Natural  History  to  which  Johnson  alluded  was  the 
History  of  Animated  Nature^  which  Goldsmith  commenced  in 
1769,  under  an  engagement  with  Griffin,  the  bookseller,  to  com- 
plete it  as  soon  as  possible  in  eight  volumes,  each  containing 
upwards  of  four  hundred  pages,  in  pica ; a hundred  guineas  to  be 
paid  to  the  author  on  the  delivery  of  each  volume  in  manuscript. 

He  was  induced  to  engage  in  this  work  by  the  urgent  so- 


170 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


licitations  of  the  booksellers,  who  had  been  struck  by  the  sterling 
merits  and  captivating  style  of  an  introduction  which  he 
wrote  to  Brookes’s  Natural  History.  It  was  Goldsmith’s  in- 
tention originally  to  make  a translation  of  Pliny,  with  a popular 
commentary ; but  the  appearance  of  Buffon’s  work  induced  him  to 
change  his  plan,  and  make  use  of  that  author  for  a guide  and 
model. 

Cumberland,  speaking  of  this  work,  observes  : “ Distress  drove 
Goldsmith  upon  undertakings  neither  congenial  with  his  studies 
nor  worthy  of  his  talents.  I remember  him  when,  in  his  chambers 
in  the  Temple,  he  showed  me  the  beginning  of  his  Animated 
Nature ; it  was  with  a sigh,  such  as  genius  draws  when  hard 
necessity  diverts  it  from  its  bent  to  drudge  for  bread,  and  talk  of 
birds,  and  beasts,  and  creeping  things,  which  Pidock’s  showman 
would  have  done  as  well.  Poor  fellow,  he  hardly  knows  an  ass 
from  a mule,  nor  a turkey  from  a goose,  but  when  he  sees  it  on 
tlie  table.” 

Others  of  Goldsmith’s  friends  entertained  similar  ideas  with 
respect  to  his  fitness  for  the  task,  and  they  were  apt  now  and 
then  to  banter  him  on  the  subject,  and  to  amuse  themselves  with 
his  easy  credulity.  The  custom  among  the  natives  of  Otaheite 
of  eating  dogs  being  once  mentioned  in  company.  Goldsmith  ob- 
served that  a similar  custom  prevailed  in  China  ; that  a dog- 
butcher  is  as  common  there  as  any  other  butchei  ; and  that,  when 
he  walks  abroad,  all  the  dogs  fall  on  him.  Johnson.  — “ That 
is  not  owing  to  his  killing  dogs ; sir,  I remember  a butcher  at 
Litchfield,  whom  a dog  that  was  in  the  house  where  I lived 
always  attacked.  It  is  the  smell  of  carnage  which  provokes  this, 
let  the  animals  he  has  killed  be  what  they  may.”  Goldsmith. — 
“Yes,  there  is  a general  abhorrence  in  animals  at  the  signs  of 
massacre.  If  you  put  a tub  full  of  blood  into  a stable,  the  horses 
are  likely  to  go  mad.”  Johnson.  — “I  doubt  that.”  Gold- 
smith.— “Nay,  sir,  it  is  a fact  well  authenticated.”  Thrale. — 
“You  had  better  prove  it  before  you  put  it  into  your  book  on 
Natural  History.  You  may  do  it  in  my  stable  if  you  will.” 


TEMPLE  ROOKERY. 


171 


Johnson.  — ‘‘  Nay,  sir,  I would  not  have  him  prove  it.  If  he 
is  content  to  take  his  information  from  others,  he  may  get  through 
his  book  with  little  trouble,  and  without  much  endangering  his 
reputation.  But  if  he  makes  experiments  for  so  comprehensive 
a book  as  his,  there  would  be  no  end  to  them  ; his  erroneous  as- 
sertions would  fall  then  upon  himself ; and  he  might  be  blamed 
for  not  having  made  experiments  as  to  every  particular.’’ 

Johnson’s  original  prediction,  however,  with  respect  to  this 
work,  that  Goldsmith  would  make  it  as  entertaining  as  a Persian 
tale,  was  verified,  and  though  much  of  it  was  .borrowed  from 
Buffon,  and  but  little  of  it  written  from  his  own  observation,  — 
though  it  was  by  no  means  profound,  and  was  chargeable  with 
many  errors,  yet  the  charms  of  his  style  and  the  play  of  his  happy 
disposition  throughout  have  continued  to  render  it  far  more 
popular  and  readable  than  many  works  on  the  subject  of  much 
greater  scope  and  science.  Cumberland  was  mistaken,  however,  in 
his  notion  of  Goldsmith’s  ignorance  and  lack  of  observation  as  to 
the  characteristics  of  animals.  On  the  contrary,  he  was  a minute 
and  shrewd  observer  of  them ; but  he  observed  them  with  the 
eye  of  a poet  and  moralist  as  well  as  a naturalist.  We  quote 
two  passages  from  his  works  illustrative  of  this  fact,  and  we  do 
so  the  more  readily  because  they  are  in  a manner  a part  of  his 
history,  and  give  us  another  peep  into  his  private  life  in  the 
Temple,  — of  his  mode  of  occupying  himself  in  his  lonely  and 
apparently  idle  moments,  and  of  another  class  of  acquaintances 
which  he  made  there. 

Speaking  in  his  Animated  JYature  of  the  habitudes  of  Kooks, 
“ I have  often  amused  myself,”  says  he,  with  observing  their 
plans  of  policy  from  my  window  in  the  Temple,  that  looks  upon  a 
grove,  where  they  have  made  a colony  in  the  midst  of  a city.  At 
the  commencement  of  spring  the  rookery,  which  during  the  con- 
tinuance of  winter  seemed  to  have  been  deserted,  or  only  guarded 
by  about  five  or  six,  like  old  soldiers  in  a garrison,  now  begins  to 
be  once  more  frequented,  and  in  a short  time  all  the  bustle  and 
hurry  of  business  will  be  fairly  commenced.” 


172 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


The  other  passage,  which  we  take  the  liberty  to  quote  at  some 
length,  is  from  an  admirable  paper  in  the  Bee,  and  relates  to  the 
House  Spider. 

“ Of  all  the  solitary  insects  I have  ever  remarked,  the  spider  is  the 
most  sagacious,  and  its  motions  to  me,  who  have  attentively  con- 
sidered them,  seem  almost  to  exceed  belief.  ...  I perceived,  about 
four  years  ago,  a large  spider  in  one  corner  of  my  room  making  its 
web  ; and,  though  the  maid  frequently  levelled  her  broom  against  the 
labors  of  the  little  animal,  I had  the  good  fortune  then  to  prevent  its 
destruction,  and  I may  say  it  more  than  paid  me  by  the  entertainment 
it  afforded. 

^'In  three  days  the  web  was,  with  incredible  diligence,  completed; 
nor  could  1 avoid  thinking  that  the  insect  seemed  to  exult  in  its  new 
abode.  It  frequently  traversed  it  round,  examined  the  strength  of 
every  part  of  it,  retired  into  its  hole,  and  came  out  very  frequently. 
The  first  enemy,  however,  it  had  to  encounter  was  another  and  a much 
larger  spider,  which,  having  no  web  of  its  own,  and  having  probably 
exhausted  all  its  stock  in  former  labors  of  this  kind,  came  to  invade 
the  property  of  its  neighbor.  Soon,  then,  a terrible  encounter  ensued, 
in  which  the  invader  seemed  to  have  the  victory,  and  the  laborious 
spider  was  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  its  hole.  Upon  this  I perceived 
the  victor  using  every  art  to  draw  the  enemy  from  its  stronghold.  He 
seemed  to  go  off,  but  quickly  returned  ; and  when  he  found  all  arts  in 
vain,  began  to  demolish  the  new  web  without  mercy.  This  brought 
on  another  battle,  and,  contrary  to  my  expectations,  the  laborious 
spider  became  conqueror,  and  fairly  killed  his  antagonist. 

“Now,  then,  in  peaceable  possession  of  what  was  justly  its  own,  it 
waited  three  days  with  the  utmost  impatience,  repairing  the  breaches 
of  its  web,  and  taking  no  sustenance  that  I could  perceive.  At  last, 
however,  a large  blue  fly  fell  into  the  snare,  and  struggled  hard  to  get 
loose.  The  spider  gave  it  leave  to  entangle  itself  as  much  as  possible, 
but  it  seemed  to  be  too  strong  for  the  cobweb.  I must  own  I was 
greatly  surprised  when  I saw  the  spider  immediately  sally  out,  and  in 
less  than  a minute  weave  a new  net  round  its  captive,  by  which  the 
motion  of  its  wings  was  stopped  ; and,  when  it  was  fairly  hampered 
in  this  manner,  it  was  seized  and  dragged  into  the  hole. 

“ In  this  manner  it  lived,  in  a precarious  state  ; and  Nature  seemed 
to  have  fitted  it  for  such  a life,  for  upon  a single  fly  it  subsisted  for 
more  than  a week.  I once  put  a wavsp  into  the  net  ; but  when  the 
">pider  came  out  in  order  to  seize  it  as  usual,  upon  perceiving  what 


ANECDOTES  OF  A SPIDER, 


173 


kind  of  an  enemy  it  had  to  deal  with,  it  instantly  broke  all  the  bands 
that  held  it  fast,  and  contributed  all  that  lay  in  its  power  to  disengage 
so  formidable  an  antagonist.  When  the  wasp  was  set  at  liberty,  I 
expected  the  spider  would  have  set  about  repairing  the  breaches  that 
were  made  in  its  net ; but  those,  it  seems,  were  irreparable  ; where- 
fore the  cobweb  was  now  entirely  forsaken,  and  a new  one  begun, 
which  was  completed  in  the  usual  time. 

“ I had  now  a mind  to  try  how  many  cobwebs  a single  spider  could 
furnish  ; wherefore  I destroyed  this,  and  the  insect  set  about  another. 
When  I destroyed  _the  other  also,  its  whole  stock  seemed  entirely 
exhausted,  and  it  could  spin  no  more.  The  arts  it  made  use  of  to 
support  itself,  now  deprived  of  its  great  means  of  subsistence,  were 
indeed  surprising.  I have  seen  it  roll  up  its  legs  like  a ball,  and  lie 
motionless  for  hours  together,  but  cautiously  watching  all  the  time ; 
when  a fly  happened  to  approach  sufficiently  near,  it  would  dart  out 
all  at  once,  and  often  seize  its  prey. 

“Of  this  life,  however,  it  soon  began  to  grow  weary,  and  resolved 
to  invade  the  possession  of  some  other  spider,  since  it  could  not  make 
a web  of  its  own.  It  formed  an  attack  upon  a neighboring  forti- 
fication with  great  vigor,  and  at  first  was  as  vigorously  repulsed.  Not 
daunted,  however,  with  one  defeat,  in  this  manner  it  continued  to  lay 
siege  to  another’s  web  for  three  days,  and  at  length,  having  killed  the 
defendant,  actually  took  possession.  When  smaller  flies  happen  to 
fall  into  the  snare,  the  spider  does  not  sally  out  at  once,  but  very 
patiently  waits  till  it  is  sure  of  them ; for,  upon  his  immediately 
approaching,  the  terror  of  his  appearance  might  give  the  captive 
strength  sufficient  to  get  loose  ; the  manner,  then,  is  to  wait  patiently, 
till,  by  ineffectual  and  impotent  struggles,  the  captive  has  wasted  all  its 
strength,  and  then  he  becomes  a certain  and  easy  conquest. 

“The  insect  I am  now  describing  lived  three  years  ; every  year  it 
changed  its  skin  and  got  a new  set  of  legs.  I have  sometimes  plucked 
off  a leg,  which  grew  again  in  two  or  three  days.  At  first  it  dreaded 
my  approach  to  its  web,  but  at  last  it  became  so  familiar  as  to  take  a 
fly  out  of  my  hand  ; and,  upon  my  touching  any  part  of  the  web, 
would  immediately  leave  its  hole,  prepared  either  for  a defence  or  an 
attack.” 


174 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

The  latter  part  of  the  year  1768  had  been  made  memorable  in 
the  world  of  taste  by  the  institution  of  the  Royal  Academy  of 
Arts,  under  the  patronage  of  the  King,  and  the  direction  of  forty 
of  the  most  distinguished  artists.  Reynolds,  who  had  been 
mainly  instrumental  in  founding  it,  had  been  unanimously  elected 
president,  and  had  thereupon  received  the  honor  of  knighthood.^ 
Johnson  was  so  delighted  with  his  friend’s  elevation,  that  he  broke 
through  a rule  of  total  abstinence  with  respect  to  wine,  which  he 
had  maintained  for  several  years,  and  drank  bumpers  on  the  occa- 
sion. Sir  Joshua  eagerly  sought  to  associate  his  old  and  valued 
friends  with  him  in  his  new  honors,  and  it  is  supposed  to  be 
through  his  suggestions  that,  on  the  first  establishment  of  professor- 
ships, which  took  place  in  December,  1769,  Johnson  was  nomi- 
nated to  that  of  Ancient  Literature,  and  Goldsmith  to  that  of 
History.  They  were  mere  honorary  titles,  without  emolument, 
but  gave  distinction,  from  the  noble  institution  to  which  they 
appertained.  They  also  gave  the  possessors  honorable  places  at 
the  annual  banquet,  at  whicli  were  assembled  many  of  the  most 
distinguished  persons  of  rank  and  talent,  all  proud  to  be  classed 
among  the  patrons  of  the  arts. 

The  following  letter  of  Goldsmith  to  his  brother  alludes  to  the 
foregoing  appointment,  and  to  a small  legacy  bequeathed  to  him 
by  his  uncle  Contarine. 

“To  J/r.  Maurice  Goldsmith^  at  James  LawdeVs,  Esq.,  at  Kilmore, 
near  Carrick-on-Shannon. 

“January,  1770. 

“ Dear  Brother, — I should  have  answered  your  letter  sooner,  but, 
in  truth,  I am  not  fond  of  thinking  of  the  necessities  of  those  I love, 

1 We  must  apologize  for  the  anachronism  we  have  permitted  ourselves 
in  the  course  of  this  memoir,  in  speaking  of  Reynolds  as  Sir  Joshua,  when 
treating  of  circumstances  which  occurred  prior  to  his  being  dubbed  ; but 
it  is  so  customary  to  speak  of  him  by  that  title,  that  we  found  it  difficult 
to  dispense  with  it. 


LETTER  TO  MAURICE  GOLDSMITH. 


175 


when  it  is  so  very  little  in  my  power  to  help  them.  I am  sorry  to  find 
you  are  every  way  unprovided  for  ; and  what  adds  to  my  uneasiness  is, 
that  I have  received  a letter  from  my  sister  Johnson,  by  which  I learn 
that  she  is  pretty  much  in  the  same  circumstances.  As  to  myself,  I 
believe  I think  I could  get  both  you  and  my  poor  brother-in-law  some- 
thing like  that  which  you  desire,  but  I am  determined  never  to  ask  for 
little  things,  nor  exhaust  any  little  interest  I may  have,  until  I can 
serve  you,  him,  and  myself  more  effectually.  As  yet,  no  opportunity 
has  offered  ; but  I believe  you  are  pretty  well  convinced  that  I will  not 
be  remiss  when  it  arrives. 

“ The  King  has  lately  been  i)leased  to  make  me  professor  of  Ancient 
History  in  the  royal  academy  of  x^ainting  which  he  has  just  established, 
but  there  is  no  salary  annexed  ; and  I took  it  rather  as  a compliment 
to  the  Institution  than  any  benefit  to  myself.  Honors  to  one  in  my 
situation  are  something  like  ruffles  to  one  that  wants  a shirt. 

“You  tell  me  that  there  are  fourteen  or  fifteen  pounds  left  me  in 
the  hands  of  my  cousin  Lawder,  and  you  ask  me  what  I would  have 
done  with  them.  My  dear  brother,  I would  by  no  means  give  any 
directions  to  my  dear  worthy  relations  at  Kilmore  how  to  dispose  of 
money  which  is,  properly  speaking,  more  theirs  than  mine.  All  that 
I can  say  is,  that  I entirely,  and  this  letter  will  serve  to  witness,  give 
up  any  right  and  title  to  it ; and  I am  sure  they  will  dispose  of  it  to 
the  best  advantage.  To  them  I entirely  leave  it ; whether  they  or 
you  may  think  the  whole  necessary  to  fit  you  out,  or  whether  our  poor 
sister  Johnson  may  not  want  the  half,  I leave  entirely  to  their  and 
your  discretion.  The  kindness  of  that  good  couple  to  our  shattered 
family  demands  our  sincerest  gratitude  ; and,  though  they  have  almost 
forgotten  me,  yet,  if  good  things  at  last  arrive,  I hope  one  day  to 
return  and  increase  their  good-humor  by  adding  to  my  own. 

“I  have  sent  my  cousin  Jenny  a miniature  picture  of  myself,  as  I 
believe  it  is  the  most  acceptable  present  I can  offer.  I have  ordered  it 
to  be  left  for  her  at  George  Faulkner’s,  folded  in  a letter.  The  face, 
you  well  know,  is  ugly  enough,  but  it  is  finely  painted.  I will  shortly 
also  send  my  friends  over  the  Shannon  some  mezzotinto  prints  of  my- 
self, and  some  more  of  my  friends  here,  such  as  Burke,  Johnson,  Rey- 
nolds, and  Colrnan.  I believe  I have  written  a hundred  letters  to 
different  friends  in  your  country,  and  never  received  an  answer  to  any 
of  them.  I do  not  know  how  to  account  for  this,  or  why  they  are  un- 
willing to  keep  up  for  me  those  regards  which  I must  ever  retain  for 
them . 

“ If,  then,  you  have  a mind  to  oblige  me,  you  will  write  often, 


176 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


whether  I answer  you  or  not.  Let  me  particularly  have  the  news  of 
our  family  and  old  acquaintances.  For  instance,  you  may  begin  by 
telling  me  about  the  family  where  you  reside,  how  they  spend  their 
time,  and  whether  they  ever  make  mention  of  me.  Tell  me  about  my 
mother,  my  brother  Hodson  and  his  son,  my  brother  Harry’s  son  and 
daughter,  my  sister  Johnson,  the  family  of  Ballyoughter,  what  is 
become  of  them,  where  they  live,  and  how  they  do.  You  talked  of 
being  my  only  brother:  I don’t  understand  you.  Where  is  Charles  ? 
A sheet  of  paper  occasionally  filled  with  the  news  of  this  kind  would 
make  me  very  happy,  and  would  keep  you  nearer  my  mind.  As  it  is, 
my  dear  brother,  believe  me  to  be 

“ Yours,  most  affectionately, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

By  this  letter  we  find  the  Goldsmiths  the  same  shifting,  shift- 
less race  as  formerly;  a “shattered  family,’’  scrambling  on  each 
other’s  back  as  soon  as  any  rise  above  the  surface.  Maurice  is 
“ every  way  unprovided  for  ” ; living  upon  cousin  Jane  and  her 
husband ; and,  perhaps,  amusing  himself  by  hunting  otter  in  the 
river  Inny.  Sister  Johnson  and  her  husband  are  as  poorly  off  as 
Maurice,  with,  perhaps,  no  one  at  hand  to  quarter  themselves 
upon  ; as  to  the  rest,  “ what  is  become  of  them  ? where  do  they 
live  ? and  how  do  they  do  ? what  has  become  of  Charles  ? ” What 
forlorn,  hap-hazard  life  is  implied  by  these  questions  ! Can  we 
wonder  that,  with  all  the  love  for  his  native  place,  which  is  shown 
throughout  Goldsmith’s  writings,  he  had  not  the  heart  to  return 
there?  Yet  his  affections  are  still  there.  He  wishes  to  know 
whether  the  Lawders  (which  means  his  cousin  Jane,  his  early  Val- 
entine) ever  made  mention  of  him ; he  sends  Jane  Ids  miniature  ; 
he  believes  “it  is  the  most  acceptable  present  he  can  offer”;  he 
evidently,  therefore,  does  not  believe  she  has  almost  forgotten  him, 
although  he  intimates  that  he  does  : in  his  memory  she  is  still 
Jane  Contarine,  as  he  last  saw  her,  when  he  accompanied  her 
harpsichord  with  his  flute.  Absence,  like  death,  sets  a seal  on 
the  image  of  those  we  have  loved ; we  cannot  realize  the  interven- 
ing changes  which  time  may  have  effected. 

As  to  the  rest  of  Goldsmith’s  relatives,  he  abandons  his  legacy 


GOL T) SMITH ' S POR TRAIT. 


177 


of  fifteen  pounds,  to  be  shared  among  them.  It  is  all  he  has  to 
give.  His  heedless  improvidence  is  eating  up  the  pay  of  the  book- 
sellers in  advance.  With  all  his  literary  success,  he  has  neither 
money  nor  influence  ; but  he  has  empty  fame,  and  he  is  ready  to 
participate  with  them  ; he  is  honorary  professor,  without  pay ; his 
portrait  is  to  be  engraved  in  mezzotint,  in  company  with  those 
of  his  friends,  Burke,  Reynolds,  Johnson,  Colman,  and.  others,  and 
he  will  send  prints  of  them  to  his  friends  over  the  Channel,  though 
they  may  not  have  a house  to  hang  them  up  in.  What  a motley 
letter  ! How  indicative  of  the  motley  character  of  the  writer ! 
By  the  by,  the  publication  of  a splendid  mezzotinto  engraving  of 
his  likeness  by  Reynolds  was  a great  matter  of  glorification  to 
Goldsmith,  especially  as  it  appeared  in  such  illustrious  company. 
As  he  was  one  day  walking  the  streets  in  a state  of  high  elation, 
from  having  just  seen  it  figuring  in  the  print-shop  windows,  he 
met  a young  gentleman  with  a newly  married  wife  hanging  on  his 
arm,  whom  he  immediately  recognized  for  Master  Bishop,  one 
of  the  boys  he  had  petted  and  treated  with  sweetmeats  when  a- 
humble  usher  at  Milner’s  school.  The  kindly  feelings  of  old  times 
revived,  and  he  accosted  him  with  cordial  familiarity,  though  the 
youth  may  have  found  some  difficulty  in  recognizing  in  the  person- 
age, arrayed,  perhaps,  in  garments  of  Tyrian  dye,  the  dingy  peda- 
gogue of  the  Milners.  ‘‘  Come,  my  boy,”  cried  Goldsmith,  as  if 
still  speaking  to  a school-boy,  ■ — “ come,  Sam,  I am  delighted  to 
see  you.  I must  treat  you  to  something  — what  shall  it  be? 
Will  you  have  some  apples?”  glancing  at  an  old  woman’s  stall; 
then,  recollecting  the  print-shop  window  : ‘‘Sam,”  said  he,  “have 
you  seen  my  picture  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds?  Have  you  seen  it, 
Sam?  Have  you  got  an  engraving?”  Bishop  was  caught;  he 
equivocated ; he  had  not  yet  bought  it ; but  he  was  furnishing  his 
house,  and  had  fixed  upon  the  place  where  it  was  to  be  hung. 
“Ah,  Sam!”  rejoined  Goldsmith  reproachfully,  “if  your  picture 
had  been  published, ’I  should  not  have  waited  an  hour  without 
having  it.” 

After  all,  it  was  honest  pride,  not  vanity,  in  Goldsmith,  that 


178 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


was  gratified  at  seeing  his  portrait  deemed  worthy  of  being  per- 
petuated by  the  classic  pencil  of  Reynolds,  and  ‘‘hung  up  in  his- 
tory ’’  beside  that  of  his  revered  friend  Johnson.  Even  the  great 
moralist  himself  was  not  insensible  to  a feeling  of  this  kind. 
Walking  one  day  with  Goldsmith,  in  Westminster  Abbey,  among 
the  tombs  of  monarchs,  warriors,  and  statesmen,  they  came  to  the 
sculptured  mementoes  of  literary  worthies  in  Poets’  Corner.  Cast- 
ing his  eye  round  upon  these  memorials  of  genius,  Johnson  mut- 
tered in  a low  tone  to  his  companion,  — 

‘‘  Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur  istis.” 

Goldsmith  treasured  up  the  intimated  hope,  and  shortly  after- 
wards, as  they  were  passing  by  Temple  Bar,  where  the  heads  of 
Jacobite  rebels,  executed  for  treason,  were  mouldering  aloft  on 
spikes,  pointed  up  to  the  grizzly  mementoes,  and  echoed  the  inti- 
mation, 

“Forsitan  et  nostrum  nomen  miscebitur 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

Several  years  had  now  elapsed  since  the  publication  of  The 
Traveller^  and  much  wonder  was  expressed  that  the  great  success 
of  that  poem  had  not  excited  the  author  to  further  poetic  attempts. 
On  being  questioned  at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Royal  Academy 
by  the  Earl  of  Lisburn,  why  he  neglected  the  Muses  to  compile 
histories  and  write  novels,  “ My  Lord,”  replied  he,  “by  courting 
the  Muses  I shall  starve,  but  by  my  other  labors  I eat,  drink, 
have  good  clothes,  and  can  enjoy  the  luxuries  of  life.”  So,  also, 
on  being  asked  by  a poor  writer  what  was  the  most  profitable 
mode  of  exercising  the  pen, — “ My  dear  fellow,”  replied  he,  good- 
humoredly,  “ pay  no  regard  to  the  draggle-tailed  Muses ; for  my 
part  I have  found  productions  in  prose  much  more  sought  after 
and  better  paid  for.” 

Still,  however,  as  we  have  heretofore  shown,  he  found  sweet 
moments  of  dalliance  to  steal  away  from  his  prosaic  toils,  and 


THE  “ DESEIl TED  VILLAGE.  ” 


179 


court  the  Muse  among  the  green  lanes  and  hedge-rows  in  the  rural 
environs  of  London,  and  on  the  26th  of  May,  1770,  he  was  enabled 
to  bring  his  Deserted  Village  before  the  public. 

The  popularity  of  The  Traveller  had  prepared  the  way  for  this 
poem,  and  its  sale  was  instantaneous  and  immense.  The  first 
edition  was  immediately  exhausted ; in  a few  days  a second  was 
issued  ; in  a few  days  more  a third,  and  by  the  16th  of  August 
the  fifth  edition  was  hurried  through  the  press.  As  is  the  case 
with  popular  writers,  he  had  become  his  own  rival,  and  critics 
were  inclined  to  give  the  preference  to  his  first  poem  ; but  with 
the  public  at  large  we  believe  the  Deserted  Village  has  ever 
been  the  greatest  favorite.  Previous  to  its  publication  the  book- 
seller gave  him  in  advance  a note  for  the  price  agreed  upon,  one 
hundred  guineas.  As  the  latter  was  returning  home  he  met  a 
friend  to  whom  he  mentioned  the  circumstance,  and  who,  appar- 
ently judging  of  poetry  by  quantity  rather  than  quality,  observed 
that  it  was  a great  sum  for  so  small  a poem.  “ In  truth,”  said 
Goldsmith,  “ I think  so  too  ; it  is  much  more  than  the  honest 
man  can  afford  or  the  piece  is  worth.  I have  not  been  easy  since 
I received  it.”  In  fact,  he  actually  returned  the  note  to  the  book- 
seller, and  left  it  to  him  to  graduate  the  payment  according  to  the 
success  of  the  work.  The  bookseller,  as  may  well  be  supposed, 
soon  repaid  him  in  full  with  many  acknowledgments  of  his  disin- 
terestedness. This  anecdote  has  been  called  in  question,  we  know 
not  on  what  grounds  ; we  see  nothing  in  it  incompatible  with  the 
character  of  Goldsmith,  who  was  very  impulsive,  and  prone  to  acts 
of  inconsiderate  generosity. 

As  we  do  not  pretend  in  this  summary  memoir  to  go  into  a 
criticism  or  analysis  of  any  of  Goldsmith’s  writings,  we  shall  not 
dwell  upon  the  peculiar  merits  of  this  poem ; we  cannot  help 
noticing,  however,  how  truly  it  is  a mirror  of  the  author’s  heart, 
and  of  all  the  fond  pictures  of  early  friends  and  early  life  forever 
present  there.  It  seems  to  us  as  if  the  very  last  accounts  re- 
ceived from  home,  of  his  “ shattered  family,”  and  the  desolation 
that  seemed  to  have  settled  upon  the  haunts  of  his  childhood,  had 


180 


OLIVER  GOLBSMITII. 


' cut  the  roots  of  one  feebly  cherished  hope,  and  produced  the  fol- 
lowing exquisitely  tender  and  mournful  lines  : — 

“ In  all  my  wand’rings  round  this  world  of  care, 

In  all  my  griefs  — and  God  has  giv’n  my  share  — 

I still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown, 

Amid  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down  ; 

To  husband  out  life’s  taper  at  the  close. 

And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose  ; 

I still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still, 

Amid  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn’d  skill, 

Around  my  fire  an  ev’ning  group  to  draw, 

And  tell  of  all  I felt  and  all  I saw ; 

And  as  a hare,  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 

Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  she  flew  ; 

I still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 

Here  to  return  — and  die  at  home  atlast,"^^ 

How  touchingly  expressive  are  the  succeeding  lines,  wrung  from 
a heart  which  all  the  trials  and  temptations  and  bufietings  of  the 
world  could  not  render  worldly  ; which,  amid  a thousand  follies 
and  errors  of  the  head,  still  retained  its  childlike  innocence ; and 
which,  doomed  to  struggle  on  to  the  last  amidst  the  din  and  tur- 
moil of  the  metropolis,  had  ever  been  cheating  itself  with  a dream 
of  rural  quiet  and  seclusion  : — 

“Oh  bless’d  retirement ! friend  to  life’s  decline, 

Retreats  from  care,  that  never  must  he  mine^ 

How  blest  is  he  who  crowns,  in  shades  like  tnese, 

A youth  of  labor  with  an  age  of  ease  ; 

Who  quits  a world  where  strong  temptations  try. 

And,  since  ’tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly  ! 

For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep. 

Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dangerous  deep  ; 

Nor  surly  porter  stands,  in  guilty  state, 

To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate  ; 

But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 

Angels  around  befriending  virtue’s  friend  ; 

Sinks  to  the  grave  with  unperceived  decay, 

While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way  ; 

And  all  his  prospects  brightening  to  the  last. 

His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past.” 


NOTICE  OF  POEM. 


181 


NOTE. 

The  following  article,  which  appeared  in  a London  periodical, 
shows  the  efiect  of  Goldsmith’s  poem  in  renovating  the  fortunes  of 
Lissoy. 

“ About  three  miles  from  Bally mah on,  a very  central  town  in 
the  sister-kingdom,  is  the  mansion  and  village  of  Auburn,  so  called 
by  their  present  possessor.  Captain  Hogan.  Through  the  taste 
and  improvement  of  this  gentleman,  it  is  now  a beautiful  spot,  al- 
though fifteen  years  since  it  presented  a very  bare  and  unpoet ical 
aspect.  This,  however,  was  owing  to  a cause  which  serves 
strongly  to  corroborate  the  assertion,  that  Goldsmith  had  this 
scene  in  view  when  he  wrote  his  poem  of  The  Deserted  Village. 
The  then  possessor.  General  Napier,  turned  ail  his  tenants  out 
of  their  farms  that  he  might  enclose  them  in  his  own  private 
domain.  Littleton,  the  mansion  of  the  General,  stands  not  far  off, 
a complete  emblem  of  the  desolating  spirit  lamented  by  the  poet, 
dilapidated  and  converted  into  a barrack. 

“ The  chief  object  of  attraction  is  Lissoy,  once  the  parson- 
age-house of  Henry  Goldsmith,  that  brother  to  whom  the  poet 
dedicated  his  Traveller^  and  who  is  represented  as  a village  pastor, 
“ ‘ Passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a year.’ 

“ When  I was  in  the  country,  the  lower  chambers  were  inhab- 
ited by  pigs  and  sheep,  and  the  drawing-rooms  by  goats.  Captain 
Hogan,  however,  has,  I believe,  got  it  since  into  his  possession, 
and  has,  of  course,  improved  its  condition. 

Though  at  first  strongly  inclined  to  dispute  the  identity  of 
Auburn,  Lissoy  House  overcame  my  scruples.  As  I clambered 
over  the  rotten  gate,  and  crossed  the  grass-grown  lawn  or  court, 
the  tide  of  association  became  too  strong  for  casuistry  : here  the 
poet  dwelt  and  wrote,  and  here  his  thoughts  fondly  recurred 
when  composing  his  Traveller  in  a foreign  land.  Yonder  was  the 
decent  church,  that  literally  ‘topped  the  neighboring  hill.’  Before 
me  lay  the  little  hill  of  Knockrue,  on  which  he  declares,  in  one 


182 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


of  his  letters,  he  had  rather  sit  with  a book  in  hand  than  mingle 
in  the  proudest  assemblies.  And,  above  all,  startlingly  true,  be- 
neath my  feet  was 

‘‘  ‘ Yonder  copse,  where  once  the  garden  smiled, 

And  still  where  many  a garden-flower  grows  wild.’ 

“A  painting  from  the  life  could  not  be  more  exact.  ‘ The  stub- 
born currant-bush  ’ lifts  its  head  above  the  rank  grass,  and  the  proud 
hollyhock  flaunts  where  its  sisters  of  the  flower-knot  are  no  more. 

“In  the  middle  of  the  village  stands  the  old  ‘hawthorn-tree,^ 
built  up  with  masonry  to  distinguish  and  preserve  it ; it  is  old 
and  stunted,  and  sufters  much  from  the  depredations  of  post-chaise 
travellers,  who  generally  stop  to  procure  a twig.  Opposite  to  it  is 
the  village  ale-house,  over  the  door  of  which  swings  ‘ The  Three 
Jolly  Pigeons.’  Within,  everything  is  arranged  according  to 
the  letter  : — 

“ ‘ The  whitewash’d  wall,  the  nicely-sanded  floor, 

The  varnish’d  clock  that  click’d  behind  the  door: 

The  chest,  contrived  a double  debt  to  pay, 

A bed  by  night,  a chest  of  drawers  by  day  ; 

The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use, 

The  twelve  good  rules,  the  royal  game  of  goose.’ 

“ Captain  Hogan,  I have  heard,  found  great  difficulty  in  ob- 
taining ‘ the  twelve  good  rules,’  but  at  length  purchased  them  at 
some  London  book-stall  to  adorn  the  whitewashed  parlor  of  ‘ The 
Three  Jolly  Pigeons.’  However  laudable  this  may  be,  nothing 
shook  my  faith  in  the  reality  of  Auburn  so  much  as  this  exactness, 
which  had  the  disagreeable  air  of  being  got  up  for  the  occasion. 
The  last  object  of  pilgrimage  is  the  quondam  habitation  of  the 
schoolmaster, 

“ ‘ There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill’d  to  rule.’ 

It  is  surrounded  with  fragrant  proofs  of  identity  in 

“ ‘The  blossom’d  furze,  unprofltably  gay.’ 

There  is  to  be  seen  the  chair  of  the  poet,  which  fell  into  the  hands 
of  its  present  possessors  at  the  wreck  of  the  parsonage-house ; they 


IDENTITY  OF  AUBURN. 


183 


have  frequently  refused  large  offers  of  purchase  ; but  more,  I dare 
say,  for  the  sake  of  drawing  contributions  from  the  curious  than 
from  any  reverence  for  the  bard.  The  chair  is  of  oak,  with  back 
and  seat  of  cane,  which  precluded  all  hopes  of  a secret  drawer,  like 
that  lately  discovered  in  Gay’s.  There  is  no  fear  of  its  being  worn 
out  by  the  devout  earnestness  of  sitters — as  the  cocks  and  hens 
have  usurped  undisputed  possession  of  it,  and  protest  most  clamor- 
ously against  all  attempts  to  get  it  cleansed  or  to  seat  one’s  self, 

“ The  controversy  concerning  the  identity  of  this  Auburn  was 
formerly  a standing  theme  of  discussion  among  the  learned  of  the 
neighborhood ; but,  since  the  and  cons  have  been  all  ascer- 
tained, the  argument  has  died  away.  Its  abettors  plead  the  sin- 
gular agreement  between  the  local  history  of  the  place  and  the 
Auburn  of  the  poem,  and  the  exactness  with  which  the  scenery  of 
the  one  answers  to  the  description  of  the  other.  To  this  is  opposed 
the  mention  of  the  nightingale, 

“ ‘ And  fill’d  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made  ; ’ 

there  being  no  such  bird  in  the  island.  The  objection  is  slighted, 
on  the  other  hand,  by  considering  the  passage  as  a mere  poetical 
license.  ‘Besides,’  say  they,  ‘the  robin  is  the  Irish  nightingale.’ 
And  if  it  be  hinted  how  unlikely  it  was  that  Goldsmith  should 
have  laid  the  scene  in  a place  from  which  he  was  and  had  been  so 
long  absent,  the  rejoinder  is  always,  ‘Pray,  sir,  was  Milton  in  hell 
when  he  built  Pandemonium  ? ’ 

“ The  line  is  naturally  drawn  between ; there  can  be  no  doubt 
that  the  poet  intended  England  by 

“ ‘The  land  to  hast’ning  ills  a prey, 

Where  wealth  accumulates  and  men  decay.’ 

But  it  is  very  natural  to  suppose  that,  at  the  same  time,  his  im- 
agination had  in  view  the  scenes  of  his  youth,  which  give  such  strong 
features  of  resemblance  to  the  picture.” 

Best,  an  Irish  clergyman,  told  Davis,  the  traveller  in  America, 
that  the  hawthorn-bush  mentioned  in  the  poem  was  still  remark 


184 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


ably  large.  “ I was  riding  once/’  said  he,  “ with  Brady,  titular 
Bishop  of  Ardagh,  when  he  observed  to  me,  ‘ Ma  foy.  Best,  this 
huge  overgrown  bush  is  mightily  in  the  way.  I will  order  it  to  be 
cut  down.’  — ‘ What,  sir  ! ’ replied  I,  ^ cut  down  the  bush  that 
supplies  so  beautiful  an  image  in  The  Deserted  Village  V — ‘ Ma 
foy  ! ’ exclaimed  the  bishop,  ‘ is  that  the  hawthorn  bush  ? Then 
let  it  be  sacred  from  the  edge  of  the  axe,  and  evil  be  to  him  that 
should  cut  off  a branch.’”  — The  hawthorn-bush,  however,  has 
long  since  been  cut  up,  root  and  branch,  in  furnishing  relics  to 
literary  pilgrims. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

The  Deserted  Village  had  shed  an  additional  poetic  grace  round 
the  homely  person  of  the  author ; he  was  becoming  more  and  more 
acceptable  in  ladies’  eyes,  and  finding  himself  more  and  more  at 
ease  in  their  society ; at  least  in  the  society  of  those  whom  he  met 
in  the  Reynolds  circle,  among  whom  he  particularly  affected  the 
beautiful  family  of  the  Hornecks. 

But  let  us  see  what  were  really  the  looks  and  manners  of  Gold- 
smith about  this  time,  and  what  right  he  had  to  aspire  to  ladies’ 
smiles ; and  in  so  doing  let  us  not  take  the  sketches  of  Boswell 
and  his  compeers,  who  had  a propensity  to  represent  him  in  cari- 
cature ; but  let  us  take  the  apparently  truthful  and  discriminating 
picture  of  him  as  he  appeared  to  Judge  Hay,  when  the  latter  was 
a student  in  the  Temple. 

“In  person,”  says  the  Judge,  “he  was  short;  about  five  feet 
five  or  six  inches ; strong,  but  not  heavy  in  make ; rather  fair  in 
complexion,  with  brown  hair ; such,  at  least,  as  could  be  distin- 
guished from  his  wig.  His  features  were  plain,  but  not  repulsive, 
— certainly  not  so  when  lighted  up  by  conversation.  His  manners 
were  simple,  natural,  and  perhaps  on  the  whole,  we  may  say,  not 
polished ; at  least  without  the  refinement  and  good-breeding  which 
the  exquisite  polish  of  his  compositions  would  lead  us  to  expect. 


EXPEDITION  TO  PARIS, 


185 


He  was  always  cheerful  and  animated,  often,  indeed,  boisterous  in 
his  mirth  ; entered  with  spirit  into  convivial  society ; contributed 
largely  to  its  enjoyments  by  solidity  of  information,  and  the  naivete 
and  originality  of  his  character ; talked  often  without  j)remedi- 
tation,  and  laughed  loudly  without  restraint/^ 

This,  it  will  be  recollected,  represents  him  as  he  appeared  to  a 
young  Templar,  who  probably  saw  him  only  in  Temple  coffee- 
houses, at  students’  quarters,  or  at  the  jovial  supper-parties  given 
at  the  poet’s  own  chambers.  Here,  of  course,  his  mind  was  in  its 
rough  dress ; his  laugh  may  have  been  loud  and  his  mirth  boister- 
ous ; but  we  trust  all  these  matters  became  softened  and  modified 
when  he  found  himself  in  polite  drawing-rooms  and  in  female 
society. 

But  what  say  the  ladies  themselves  of  him ; and  here  fortu- 
nately, we  have  another  sketch  of  him,  as  he  appeared  at  the  time 
to  one  of  the  Horneck  circle ; in  fact,  we  believe,  to  the  Jessamy 
Bride  herself.  After  admitting,  apparently,  with  some  reluctance, 
that  “he  was  a very  plain  man,”  she  goes  on  to  say,  “but  had  he 
been  much  more  so,  it  was  impossible  not  to  love  and  respect  his 
goodness  of  heart,  which  broke  out  on  every  occasion.  His  benevo- 
lence was  unquestionable,  and  his  countenance  bore  every  trace 
of  it : no  one  that  knew  him  intimately  could  avoid  admiring  and 
loving  his  good  qualities.”  When  to  all  this  we  add  the  idea  of 
intellectual  delicacy  and  refinement  associated  with  him  by  his 
poetry  and  the  newly-plucked  bays  that  were  flourishing  round  his 
brow,  we  cannot  bo  surprised  that  fine  and  fashionable  ladies 
should  be  proud  of  his  attentions,  and  that  even  a young  beauty 
should  not  be  altogether  displeased  with  the  thoughts  of  having  a 
man  of  his  genius  in  her  chains. 

We  are  led  to  indulge  some  notions  of  the  kind  from  finding 
him  in  the  month  of  July,  but  a few  weeks  after  the  publication 
of  the  Deserted  Village^  setting  off  on  a six  weeks’  excursion  to 
Paris,  in  company  with  Mrs.  Horneck,  and  her  two  beautiful 
daughters.  A day  or  two  before  his  departure,  we  find  another 
new  gala  suit  charged  to  him  on  the  books  of  Mr.  William  Fil>)y. 


186 


OLIVEE  GOLDSMITH. 


Were  the  bright  eyes  of  the  Jessamy  Bride  responsible  for  this 
additional  extravagance  of  wardrobe?  Goldsmith  had  recently 
been  editing  the  works  of  Parnell ; had  he  taken  courage  from  the 
example  of  Edwin  in  the  Fairy  tale  ? — 

“ Yet  spite  of  all  that  nature  did 
To  make  his  uncouth  form  forbid, 

This  creature  dared  to  love. 

He  felt  the  force  of  Edith’s  eyes, 

Nor  wanted  hope  to  gain  the  prize 
Could  ladies  look  within  ” 

All  this  we  throw  out  as  mere  hints  and  surmises,  leaving  it  to 
our  readers  to  draw  their  own  conclusions.  It  will  be  found, 
however,  that  the  poet  was  subjected  to  shrewd  bantering  among 
his  contemporaries  about  the  beautiful  Mary  Horneck,  and  that  he 
was  extremely  sensitive  on  the  subject. 

It  was  in  the  month  of  June  that  he  set  out  for  Paris  with  his 
fair  companions,  and  the  following  letter  was  written  by  him  to 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  soon  after  the  party  landed  at  Calais. 

“ My  dear  Friend,  — 

“We  had  a very  quick  passage  from  Dover  to  Calais,  which  we 
performed  in  three  hours  and  twenty  minutes,  all  of  us  extremely  sea- 
sick, which  must  necessarily  have  happened,  as  my  machine  to  prevent 
sea-sickness  was  not  completed.  We  were  glad  to  leave  Dover,  be- 
cause we  hated  to  be  imposed  upon  ; so  were  in  high  spirits  at  coming 
to  Calais,  where  we  were  told  that  a little  money  would  go  a great 
way. 

“ Upon  landing,  with  two  little  trunks,  which  was  all  we  carried 
with  us,  we  were  surprised  to  see  fourteen  or  fifteen  fellows  all  run- 
ning down  to  the  ship  to  lay  their  hands  upon  them  ; four  got  under 
each  trunk,  the  rest  surrounded  and  held  the  hasps ; and  in  this 
manner  our  little  baggage  was  conducted,  with  a kind  of  funeral  solem- 
nity, till  it  was  safely  lodged  at  the  custom-house.  We  were  well 
enough  pleased  with  the  people’s  civility  till  they  came  to  be  paid ; 
every  creature  that  had  the  happiness  of  touching  our  trunks  with 
their  finger  expected  sixpence,  and  they  had  so  pretty  and  civil  a 
manner  of  demanding  it,  that  there  was  no  refusing  them. 

“ When  we  had  done  with  the  porters,  we  had  next  to  speak  with 


BOSWELL'S  ABSUUl)  MISCONCEPTIONS.  187 


the  custom-liouse  officers,  who  had  their  pretty  civil  way  too.  We 
were  directed  to  the  H6tel  d’Angleterre,  where  a valet-de-place  came 
to  offer  his  service,  and  spoke  to  me  ten  minutes  before  I once  found 
out  that  he  was  speaking  English.  We  had  no  occasion  for  his  ser- 
vices, so  we  gave  him  a little  money  because  he  spoke  English,  and 
because  he  wanted  it.  I cannot  help  mentioning  another  circum- 
stance : I bought  a new  riband  for  my  wig  at  Canterbury,  and  the 
barber  at  Calais  broke  it  in  order  to  gain  sixpence  by  buying  me  a 
new  one.” 

All  incident  which  occurred  in  the  course  of  this  tour  has  been 
tortured  by  that  literary  magpie,  Boswell,  into  a proof  of  Gold- 
smith’s absurd  jealousy  of  any  admiration  shown  to  others  in  his 
presence.  While  stopping  at  a hotel  in  Lisle,  they  were  drawn  to 
the  windows  by  a military  parade  in  front.  The  extreme  beauty 
of  the  Miss  Hornecks  immediately  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
officers,  who  broke  forth  witli  enthusiastic  speeches  and  compli- 
ments intended  for  their  ears.  Goldsmith  was  amused  for  a while, 
but  at  length  affected  impatience  at  this  exclusive  admiration  of 
his  beautiful  companions,  and  exclaimed,  with  muck  severity  of 
aspect,  “Elsewhere  I also  would  have  my  admirers.” 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  the  obtuseness  of  intellect  necessary  to 
misconstrue  so  obvious  a piece  of  mock  petulance  and  dry  humor 
into  an  instance  of  mortified  vanity  and  jealous  self-conceit. 

Goldsmith  jealous  of  the  admiration  of  a group  of  gay  officers 
for  the  charms  of  two  beautiful  young  women  ! This  even  out- 
Boswells  Boswell : yet  this  is  but  one  of  several  similar  absurdi- 
ties, evidently  misconceptions  of  Goldsmith’s  peculiar  vein  of 
humor,  by  which  the  charge  of  envious  jealousy  has  been 
attempted  to  be  fixed  upon  him.  In  the  present  instance  it  was 
contradicted  by  one  of  the  ladies  herself,  who  was  annoyed  that  it 
had  been  advanced  against  him.  “ I am  sure,”  said  she,  “ from 
the  peculiar  manner  of  his  humor,  and  assumed  frown  of  counte- 
nance, what  was  often  uttered  in  jest  was  mistaken,  by  those  who 
did  not  know  him,  for  earnest.”  No  one  was  more  prone  to  err  on 
this  point  than  Boswell.  He  had  a tolerable  perception  of  wit, 
but  none  of  humor. 


188 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


The  following  letter  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  subsequently 
written. 

“ To  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 

“Paris,  July  29,  [1770.] 

“ My  dear  Friend,  — I began  a long  letter  to  you  from  Lisle,  giving 
a description  of  all  that  we  had  done  and  seen,  but,  finding  it  very 
dull,  and  knowing  that  you  would  show  it  again,  I threw  it  aside  and 
it  was  lost.  You  see  by  the  top  of  this  letter  that  we  are  at  Paris,  and 
(as  I have  often  heard  you  say)  we  have  brought  our  own  amusement 
with  us,  for  the  ladies  do  not  seem  to  be  very  fond  of  what  we  have 
yet  seen. 

“ With  regard  to  myself,  I find  that  travelling  at  twenty  and  forty 
are  very  different  things.  I set  out  with  all  my  confirmed  habits  about 
me,  and  can  find  nothing  on  the  Continent  so  good  as  when  I formerly 
left  it.  One  of  our  chief  amusements  here  is  scolding  at  everything  we 
meet  with,  and  praising  everything  and  every  person  we  left  at  home. 
You  may  judge,  therefore,  whether  your  name  is  not  frequently  ban- 
died at  table  among  us.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I never  thought  I could 
regret  your  absence  so  much  as  our  various  mortifications  on  the  road 
have  often  taught  me  to  do.  I could  tell  you  of  disasters  and  adven- 
tures without  number ; of  our  lying  in  barns,  and  of  my  being  half 
poisoned  with  a dish  of  green  peas  ; of  our  quarrelling  with  postilions, 
and  being  cheated  by  our  landladies  ; but  I reserve  all  this  for  a happy 
hour  which  I expect  to  share  with  you  upon  my  return. 

“ 1 have  little  to  tell  you  more,  but  that  we  are  at  present  all  well, 
and  expect  returning  when  we  have  stayed  out  one  month,  which  I did 
not  care  if  it  were  over  this  very  day.  I long  to  hear  from  you  all, 
how  you  yourself  do,  how  Johnson,  Burke,  Dyer,  Chamier,  Colman, 
and  every  one  of  the  club  do.  I wish  I could  send  you  some  amuse- 
ment in  this  letter,  but  I protest  I am  so  stupefied  by  the  air  of  this 
country  (for  I am  sure  it  cannot  be  natural)  that  I have  not  a word  to 
say.  I have  been  thinking  of  the  plot  of  a comedy,  which  shall  be 
entitled  ‘ A Journey  to  Paris  ’ in  which  a family  shall  be  introduced 
with  a full  intention  of  going  to  France  to  save  money.  You  know 
there  is  not  a place  in  the  world  more  promising  for  that  purpose.  As 
for  the  meat  of  this  country,  I can  scarce  eat  it ; and  though  we  pay 
two  good  shillings  a head  for  our  dinner,  I find  it  all  so  tough  that  I 
have  spent  less  time  with  my  knife  than  my  picktooth.  I said  this  as 
a good  thing  at  the  table,  but  it  was  not  understood.  I believe  it  to  be 
a good  thing. 


LETTER  TO  REYNOLDS. 


189 


“As  for  our  intended  journey  to  Devonshire,  I find  it  out  of  my 
power  to  perform  it ; for,  as  soon  as  I arrive  at  Dover,  I intend  to  let 
the  ladies  go  on,  and  I will  take  a country-lodging  somewhere  near 
that  place  in  order  to  do  some  business.  I have  so  outrun  the  con- 
stable that  I must  mortify  a little  to  bring  it  up  again.  For  God’s  sake, 
the  night  you  receive  this  take  your  pen  in  your  hand  and  tell  me 
something  about  yourself  and  myself,  if  you  know  anything  that 
has  happened.  About  Miss  Reynolds,  about  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  my 
nephew,  or  anybody  that  you  regard.  I beg  you  will  send  to  Griffin 
the  bookseller  to  know  if  there  be  any  letters  left  for  me,  and  be  so 
good  as  to  send  them  to  me  at  Paris.  They  may  perhaps  be  left  for 
me  at  the  Porter’s  Lodge,  opposite  the  pump  in  Temple  Lane.  The 
same  messenger  will  do.  I expect  one  from  Lord  Clare,  from  Ireland. 
As  for  the  others,  I am  not  much  uneasy  about. 

“ Is  there  anything  I can  do  for  you  at  Paris  ? I wish  you  would 
tell  me.  The  whole  of  my  own  purchases  here  is  one  silk  coat,  which 
I have  put  on,  and  which  makes  me  look  like  a fool.  But  no  more  of 
that.  I find  that  Colman  has  gained  his  lawsuit.  I am  glad  of  it.  I 
suppose  you  often  meet.  I will  soon  be  among  you,  better  pleased 
with  my  situation  at  home  than  I ever  was  before.  And  yet  I must 
say,  that,  if  anything  could  make  France  pleasant,  the  very  good 
woman  with  whom  I am  at  present  would  certainly  do  it.  I could  say 
more  about  that,  but  I intend  showing  them  the  letter  before  I send  it 
away.  What  signifies  teasing  you  longer  with  moral  observations, 
when  the  business  of  my  writing  is  over  ? I have  one  thing  only  more 
to  say,  and  of  that  I think  every  hour  in  the  day,  namely,  that  I am 
your  most  sincere  and  most  affectionate  friend, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“ Direct  to  me  at  the  Hotel  de  Dane  marc,  f 
Rue  Jacob,  Fauxbourg  St.  Germains.”  i 

A word  of  comment  on  this  letter  : — 

Travelling  is,  indeed,  a very  different  thing  with  Goldsmith  the 
poor  student  at  twenty,  and  Goldsmith  the  poet  and  Professor  at 
forty.  At  twenty,  though  obliged  to  trudge  on  foot  from  town  to 
town,  and  country  to  country,  paying  for  a supper  and  a bed  by  a 
tune  on  the  flute,  everything  pleased,  everything  was  good;  a 
truckle-bed  in  a garret  was  a couch  of  down,  and  the  homely  fare 
of  the  peasant  a feast  fit  for  an  epicure.  Now,  at  forty,  when  he 
posts  through  the  country  in  a carriage,  with  fair  ladies  by  his 


190 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


side,  everything  goes  wrong  : he  has  to  quarrel  with  postilions,  he 
is  cheated  by  landladies,  the  hotels  are  barns,  the  meat  is  too 
tough  to  be  eaten,  and  he  is  half  poisoned  by  green  peas!  A 
line  in  his  letter  explains  the  secret  : ‘‘  the  ladies  do  not  seem  to 
be  very  fond  of  what  we  have  seen.”  “One  of  our  chief  amuse- 
ments is  scolding  at  everything  we  meet  with,  and  praising  every- 
thing and  every  person  we  have  left  at  home  ! ” — the  true  English 
travelling  amusement.  Poor  Groldsmith  1 he  has  “ all  his  con- 
firmed habits  about  him  ” ; that  is  to  say,  he  has  recently  rifeen 
into  high  life,  and  acquired  high-bred  notions  ; he  must  be  fastid- 
ious like  his  fellow-travellei  s ; he  dare  not  be  pleased  with  what 
pleased  the  vulgar  tastes  of  bis  youth.  He  is  unconsciously  illus- 
trating the  trait  so  humorously  satirized  by  him  in  Ned  Tibbs, 
the  shabby  beau,  who  can  find  “ no  sucli  dressing  as  be  had  at 
Lord  Crump’s  or  Lady  Crimp's  ” ; whose  very  senses  have  grown 
genteel,  and  who  no  longer  “ smacks  at  wretched  wine  or  praises 
detestable  custard.”  A lurking  thorn,  too,  is  worrying  him 
throughout  this  tour ; he  has  “ outrun  the  constable  ” ; that  is  to 
say,  his  expenses  have  outrun  his  means,  and  he  will  have  to 
make  up  for  this  butterfly  flight  by  toiling  like  a grub  on  his 
return. 

Another  circumstance  contributes  to  mar  the  pleasure  he  had 
promised  himself  in  this  excursion.  At  Paris  the  party  is  unex- 
pectedly joined  by  a Mr.  Hickey,  a bustling  attorney,  who  is  well 
acquainted  with  that  metropolis  and  its  environs,  and  insists  on 
playing  the  cicerone  on  all  occasions.  He  and  Goldsmith  do  not 
relish  each  other,  and  they  have  several  petty  altercations.  The 
lawyer  is  too  much  a man  of  business  and  method  for  the  careless 
poet,  and  is  disposed  to  manage  everything.  He  has  perceived 
Goldsmith’s  whimsical  peculiarities  without  properly  appreciating 
his  merits,  and  is  prone  to  indulge  in  broad  bantering  and  raillery 
at  his  expense,  particularly  irksome  if  indulged  in  presence  of  the 
ladies.  He  makes  himself  merry  on  his  return  to  England,  by 
giving  the  following  anecdote  as  illustrative  of  Goldsmith’s 
vanity : ~ 


HICKEY,  SPECIAL  ATTOPNF.Y, 


191 


“ Being  with  a party  at  Versailles,  viewing  the  water-works, 
a question  arose  among  the  gentlemen  present,  whether  the  dis- 
tance from  whence  they  stood  to  one  of  the  little  islands  was 
within  the  compass  of  a leap.  Goldsmith  maintained  the  affirm- 
ative; but,  being  bantered  on  the  subject,  and  remembering 
his  former  prowess  as  a youth,  attempted  the  lea]),  but,  falling 
short,  descended  into  the  water,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the 
company.’’ 

Was  the  Jessamy  Bride  a witness  of  this  unlucky  exploit? 

This  same  Hickey  is  the  one  of  whom  Goldsmith,  some  time 
subsequently,  gave  a good-humored  sketch,  in  his  poem  of  The 
Retaliation. 

‘‘  Here  Hickey  reclines,  a most  blunt,  pleasant  creature, 

And  slander  itself  must  allow  him  good-nature  ; 

He  cherish’d  his  friend,  and  he  relish’d  a bumper, 

Yet  one  fault  he  had,  and  that  one  was  a thumper. 

Perhaps  you  may  ask  if  the  man  was  a miser ; 

I answer.  No,  no,  for  he  always  was  wiser ; 

Too  courteous,  perhaps,  or  obligingly  flat  ? 

His  very  worst  foe  can’t  accuse  him  of  that ; 

Perhaps  he  confided  in  men  as  they  go, 

And  so  was  too  foolishly  honest  ? Ah,  no  ! 

Then  what  was  his  failing  ? Come,  tell  it,  and  burn  ye  — 

He  was,  could  he  help  it  ? a special  attorney.” 

One  of  the  few  remarks  extant  made  by  Goldsmith  during  his 
tour  is  the  following,  of  whimsical  .import,  in  his  Animated 
Nature. 

“In  going  through  the  towns  of  France,  some  time  since,  I could 
not  help  observing  how  much  plainer  their  parrots  spoke  than  ours, 
and  how  very  distinctly  I understood  their  parrots  speak  French,  when 
I could  not  understood  our  own,  though  they  spoke  my  native  lan- 
guage. I at  first  ascribed  it  to  the  different  qualities  of  the  two  lan- 
guages, and  was  for  entering  into  an  elaborate  discussion  on  the  vowels 
and  consonants ; but  a friend  that  was  with  me  solved  the  difficulty  at 
once,  by  assuring  me  that  the  French  women  scarce  did  anything  else 
the  whole  day  than  sit  and  instruct  their  feathered  pupils;  and  that 
the  birds  were  thus  distinct  in  their  lessons  in  consequence  of  continual 
schooling.” 


192 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


His  tour  does  not  seem  to  have  left  in  his  memory  the  most 
fragrant  recollections ; for,  being  asked,  after  his  return,  whether 
travelling  on  the  Continent  repaid  “ an  Englishman  for  the  pri- 
vations and  annoyances  attendant  on  it,”  he  replied,  ‘‘I  recom- 
mend it  by  all  means  to  the  sick,  if  they  are  without  the  sense  of 
smelling^  and  to  the  poor  if  they  are  without  the  sense  of  feeling^ 
and  to  both  if  they  can  discharge  from  their  minds  all  idea  of 
what  in  England  we  term  comfort.” 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  universal  improvement  in  the  art 
of  living  on  the  Continent  has  at  the  present  day  taken  away  the 
force  of  Goldsmith’s  reply,  though  even  at  the  time  it  was  more 
humorous  than  correct. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

On  his  return  to  England,  Goldsmith  received  the  melancholy 
tidings  of  the  death  of  his  mother.  Notwithstanding  the  fame 
as  an  author  to  which  he  had  attained,  she  seems  to  have  been 
disappointed  in  her  early  expectations  from  him.  Like  others  of 
his  family,  she  had  been  more  vexed  by  his  early  follies  than 
pleased  by  his  proofs  of  genius ; and  in  subsequent  years,  when 
ne  had  risen  to  fame  and  to  intercourse  with  the  great,  had  been 
annoyed  at  the  ignorance  of  the  world  and  want  of  management, 
which  prevented  him  from  pushing  his  fortune.  He  had  always, 
however,  been  an  affectionate  son,  and  in  the  latter  years  of  her 
life,  when  she  had  become  blind,  contributed  from  his  precarious 
resources  to  prevent  her  from  feeling  want. 

He  now  resumed  the  labors  of  his  pen,  which  his  recent  excur- 
sion to  Paris  rendered  doubly  necessary.  We  should  have  men- 
tioned a Life  of  Parnelf  published  by  him  shortly  after  the 
Dei^erted  Village.  It  was,  as  usual,  a piece  of  ;ob-work,  hastily 
got  up  for  pocket-money.  .lohnson  spoke  slightingly  of  it,  and 
the  author  himself  tfiought  proper  to  apologize  for  its  meagre- 


193 


^'‘LIFK  OF  BOLINGBROKE.'' 

ness, — yet,  in  so  doing,  used  a simile,  which  for  beauty  of  im- 
agery and  felicity  of  language  is  enough  of  itself  to  stamp  a value 
upon  the  essay. 

“Such,’’  says  he,  “is  the  very  unpoetical  detail  of  the  life  of 
a poet.  Some  dates  and  some  few  facts,  scarcely  more  interest- 
ing than  those  that  make  the  ornaments  of  a country  tombstone, 
are  all  that  remain  of  one  whose  labors  now  begin  to  excite  uni- 
versal curiosity.  A poet,  while  living,  is  seldom  an  object  suffi- 
ciently great  to  attract  much  attention ; his  real  merits  are 
known  but  to  a few,  and  these  are  generally  sparing  in  their 
praises.  When  his  fame  is  increased  by  time,  it  is  then  too  late 
to  investigate  the  peculiarities  of  his  disposition  ; the  dews  of 
morning  are  past,  and  we  vainly  try  to  continue  the  chase  hy  the 
meridian  splendor,^"* 

He  now  entered  into  an  agreement  with  Davies  to  prepare  an 
abridgment,  in  one  volume  duodecimo,  of  his  History  of  Rome  ; 
but  first  to  write  a work  for  which  there  was  a more  immediate 
demand.  Davies  was  about  to  republish  Lord  Bolingbroke’s 
Dissertation  on  Parties,  which  he  conceived  would  be  exceedingly 
applicable  to  the  affairs  of  the  day,  and  make  a probable  hit  dur- 
ing the  existing  state  of  violent  political  excitement ; to  give  it 
still  greater  effect  and  currency,  he  engaged  Goldsmith  to  intrO' 
duce  it  with  a prefatory  life  of  Lord  Bolingbroke. 

About  this  time  Goldsmith’s  friend  and  countryman.  Lord 
Clare,  was  in  great  affliction,  caused  by  the  death  of  his  only  son. 
Colonel  Nugent,  and  stood  in  need  of  the  sympathies  of  a kind- 
hearted  friend.  At  his  request,  therefore.  Goldsmith  paid  him  a 
visit  at  his  seat  of  Gosfield,  taking  his  tasks  with  him.  Davies 
was  in  a worry  lest  Gosfield  Park  should  prove  a Capua  to  the 
poet,  and  the  time  be  lost.  “ Dr.  Goldsmith,”  writes  he  to  a 
friend,  “has  gone  with  Lord  Clare  into  the  country,  and  I am 
plagued  to  get  the  proofs  from  him  of  the  Life  of  Lord  Boling- 
hrokeP  The  proofs,  however,  were  furnished  in  time  for  the 
publication  of  the  work  in  December.  The  Biography,  though 
written  during  a time  of  political  turmoil,  and  introducing  a work 


194 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


intended  to  be  thrown  into  the  arena  of  politics,  maintained  that 
freedom  from  party  prejudice  observable  in  all  the  writings  of 
Goldsmith.  It  was  a selection  of  facts,  drawn  from  many  unread- 
able sources,  and  arranged  into  a clear,  flowing  narrative,  illus- 
trative of  the  career  and  character  of  one  who,  as  he  intimates, 
^‘seemed  formed  by  Nature  to  take  delight  in  struggling  with 
opposition ; whose  most  agreeable  hours  were  passed  in  storms 
of  his  own  creating ; whose  life  was  spent  in  a continual  conflict 
of  politics,  and  as  if  that  was  too  short  for  the  combat,  has  left 
his  memory  as  a subject  of  lasting  contention.’’  The  sum  received 
by  the  author  for  this  memoir  is  supposed,  from  circumstances,  to 
have  been  forty  pounds. 

Goldsmith  did  not  find  the  residence  among  the  great  unat- 
tended with  mortifications.  He  had  now  become  accustomed  to 
be  regarded  in  London  as  a literary  lion,  and  was  annoyed  at 
what  he  considered  a slight,  on  the  part  of  Lord  Camden.  He 
complained  of  it  on  his  return  to  town  at  a party  of  his  friends. 
‘‘  I met  him,”  said  he,  “ at  Lord  Clare’s  house  in  the  country ; 
and  he  took  no  more  notice  of  me  than  if  I had  been  an  ordinary 
man.”  The  company,”  says  Boswell,  “laughed  heartily  at  this 
piece  of  ‘diverting  simplicity.’  ” And  foremost  among  the  laugh- 
ers was  doubtless  the  rattle-pated  Boswell.  Johnson,  however, 
stepped  forward,  as  usual,  to  defend  the  poet,  whom  he  would 
allow  no  one  to  assail  but  himself ; perhaps  in  the  present  in- 
stance he  thought  the  dignity  of  literature  itself  involved  in  the 
question.  “ Nay,  gentlemen,”  roared  he,  “ Dr.  Goldsmith  is  in 
the  right.  A nobleman  ought  to  have  made  up  to  such  a man 
as  Goldsmith,  and  I think  it  is  much  against  Lord  Camden  that 
he  neglected  him.” 

After  Goldsmith’s  return  to  town  he  received  from  Lord  Clare 
a present  of  game,  which  he  has  celebrated  and  perpetuated  in 
his  amusing  verses  entitled  The  Haunch  of  Venison.  Some  of 
the  lines  pleasantly  set  forth  the  embarrassment  caused  by  the 
appearance  of  such  an  aristocratic  delicacy  in  the  humble  kitchen 
of  a poet,  accustomed  to  look  up  to  mutton  as  a treat ; — 


195 


THE  " UAUNCII  OF  VENISON." 

‘‘Thanks,  my  lord,  for  your  venison  ; for  finer  or  fatter 
Never  rang’d  in  a forest,  or  smok’d  in  a platter  : 

The  haunch  was  a picture  for  painters  to  study, 

The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy  ; 

Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I could  scarce  help  regretting 
To  spoil  such  a delicate  picture  by  eating  : 

I had  thought  in  my  chambers  to  place  it  in  view, 

To  be  shown  to  my  friends  as  a piece  of  virtu  ; 

As  in  some  Irish  houses  where  things  are  so-so. 

One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a show  ; 

But,  for  eating  a rasher,  of  what  they  take  pride  in. 

They’d  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  was  fry’d  in. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

But  hang  it  — to  poets,  who  seldom  can  eat. 

Your  very  good  mutton’s  a very  good  treat ; 

Such  dainties  to  them,  their  health  it  might  hurt ; 

Ifs  like  sending  them  ruffles,  when  wanting  a shirt.'^ 

We  have  an  amusing  anecdote  of  one  of  Goldsmith’s  blunders 
which  took  place  on  a subsequent  visit  to  Lord  Clare’s,  when  that 
nobleman  was  residing  in  Bath. 

Lord  Clare  and  the  Duke  of  Northumberland  had  houses  next 
to  each  other,  of  similar  architecture.  Keturning  home  one  morn- 
ing from  an  early  walk.  Goldsmith,  in  one  of  his  frequent  fits  of 
absence,  mistook  the  house,  and  walked  up  into  the  Duke’s 
dining-room,  where  he  and  the  Duchess  were  about  to  sit  down  to 
breakfast.  Goldsmith,  still  supposing  himself  in  the  house  of 
Lord  Clare,  and  that  they  were  visitors,  made  them  an  easy  salu- 
tation, being  acquainted  with  them,  and  threw  himself  on  a sofa 
in  the  lounging  manner  of  a man  perfectly  at  home.  The  Duke  and 
Duchess  soon  perceived  his  mistake,  and,  while  they  smiled  inter- 
nally, endeavored,  with  the  considerateness  of  well-bred  people,  to 
prevent  any  awkward  embarrassment.  They  accordingly  chatted 
sociably  with  him  about  matters  in  Bath,  until,  breakfast  being 
served,  they  invited  him  to  partake.  The  truth  at  once  flashed 
upon  poor  heedless  Goldsmith  ; he  started  up  from  his  free-and- 
easy  position,  made  a confused  apology  for  his  blunder,  and  would 
have  retired  perfectly  disconcerted,  had  not  the  Duke  and  Duchess 


196 


OLIVEE  GOLDSMITIL 


treated  the  whole  as  a lucky  occurrence  to  throw  him  in  their 
way,  and  exacted  a promise  from  him  to  dine  with  them. 

This  may  be  hung  up  as  a companion-piece  to  his  blunder  on 
his  first  visit  to  Northumberland  House. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

On  St.  George’s  day  of  this  year  (1771),  the  first  annual  ban- 
quet of  the  Royal  Academy  was  held  in  the  exhibition-room ; the 
walls  of  which  were  covered  with  works  of  art,  about  to  be  sub- 
mitted to  public  inspection.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  first  sug- 
gested this  elegant  festival,  presided  in  his  official  character ; Drs. 
Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  of  course,  were  present,  as  Professors  of 
the  Academy;  and,  besides  the  Academicians,  there  was  a large 
number  of  the  most  distinguished  men  of  the  day  as  guests. 
Goldsmith  on  this  occasion  drew  on  himself  the  attention  of  the 
company  by  launching  out  with  enthusiasm  on  the  poems  recently 
given  to  the  world  by  Chatterton,  as  the  works  of  an  ancient 
author  by  the  name  of  Rowley,  discovered  in  the  tower  of  Red- 
clifie  Church,  at  Bristol.  Goldsmith  spoke  of  them  with  rapture, 
as  a treasure  of  old  English  poetry.  This  immediately  raised  the 
question  of  their  authenticity;  they  having  been  pronounced  a 
forgery  of  Chatterton’s.  Goldsmith  was  warm  for  their  being 
genuine.  When  he  considered,  he  said,  the  merit  of  the  poetry, 
the  acquaintance  with  life  and  the  human  heart  displayed  in 
them,  the  antique  quaintness  of  the  language  and  the  familiar 
knowledge  of  historical  events  of  their  supposed  day,  he  could  not 
believe  it  possible  they  could  be  the  work  of  a boy  of  sixteen,  of 
narrow  education,  and  confined  to  the  duties  of  an  attorney’s 
office.  They  must  be  the  productions  of  Rowley. 

Johnson,  who  was  a stout  unbeliever  in  Rowley,  as  he  had  been 
in  Ossian,  rolled  in  his  chair  and  laughed  at  the  enthusiasm  of 
Goldsmith.  Horace  Walpole,  who  sat  near  by,  joined  in  the  laugh 
and  jeer  as  soon  as  he  found  that  the  ‘‘  trouvaille^''  as  he  called  it. 


THE  CIIATTERTON  CONTROVERSY. 


197 


“of  hh  friend  Chatterton/^  was  in  question.  This  matter,  which 
had  excited  the  simple  admiration  of  Goldsmith,  was  no  novelty  to 
him,  he  said.  “ He  might,  had  he  pleased,  have  had  the  honor  of 
ushering  the  great  discovery  to  the  learned  world.”  And  so  he 
might,  had  he  followed  his  first  impulse  in  the  matter,  for  he  him- 
self had  been  an  original  believer ; had  pronounced  some  specimen 
verses  sent  to  him  by  Chatterton  wonderful  for  their  harmony  and 
spirit ; and  had  been  ready  to  print  them  and  publish  them  to  the 
world  with  his  sanction.  When  he  found,  however,  that  his  un- 
known correspondent  was  a mere  boy,  humble  in  sphere  and  indi- 
gent in  circumstances,  and  when  Gray  and  Mason  pronounced  the 
poems  forgeries,  he  had  changed  his  whole  conduct  towards  the 
unfortunate  author,  and  by  his  neglect  and  coldness  had  dashed 
all  his  sanguine  hopes  to  the  ground. 

Exulting  in  his  superior  discernment,  this  cold-hearted  man  of 
society  now  went  on  to  divert  himself,  as  he  says,  with  the  credu- 
lity of  Goldsmith,  whom  he  was  accustomed  to  pronounce  “an 
inspired  idiot  ” ; but  his  mirth  was  soon  dashed,  for  on  asking  the 
poet  what  had  become  of  this  Chatterton,  he  was  answered,  doubt- 
less in  the  feeling  tone  of  one  who  had  experienced  the  pangs 
of  despondent  genius,  that  “ he  had  been  to  London,  and  had 
destroyed  himself.” 

The  reply  struck  a pang  of  self-reproach  even  to  the  cold  heart 
of  Walpole ; a faint  blush  may  have  visited  his  cheek  at  his  recent 
levity.  “ The  persons  of  honor  and  veracity  who  were  present,” 
said  he  in  after-years,  when  he  found  it  necessary  to  exculpate 
himself  from  the  charge  of  heartless  neglect  of  genius,  “will  attest 
with  what  surprise  and  concern  I thus  first  heard  of  his  death.” 
Well  might  he  feel  concern.  His  cold  neglect  had  doubtless  con- 
tributed to  madden  the  spirit  of  that  youthful  genius,  and  hurry 
him  towards  his  untimely  end ; nor  have  all  the  excuses  and  pal- 
liations of  Walpole’s  friends  and  admirers  been  ever  able  entirely 
to  clear  this  stigma  from  his  fame. 

But  what  was  there  in  the  enthusiasm  and  credulity  of  honest 
Goldsmith  in  this  matter,  to  subject  him  to  the  laugh  of  Johnson 


198 


OLTYEn  aOLDSMTTTL 


or  the  raillery  of  Walpole  ? Granting  the  poems  were  not  ancient, 
were  they  not  good  ? Granting  they  were  not  the  productions  of 
Kowley,  were  they  the  less  admirable  for  being  the  productions  of 
Chatterton?  Johnson  himself  testified  to  their  merits  and  the 
genius  of  their  composer,  when,  some  years  afterwards,  he  visited 
the  tower  of  Eedcliffe  Church,  and  was  shown  the  coffer  in  which 
poor  Chatterton  had  pretended  to  find  them.  “ This,’’  said  he, 
“ is  the  most  extraordinary  young  man  that  has  encountered  my 
knowledge.  It  is  wonderful  hoiv  the  whelp  has  written  such 
thing  sY 

As  to  Goldsmith,  he  persisted  in  his  credulity,  and  had  subse- 
cpiently  a dispute  with  Dr.  Percy  on  the  subject,  which  interrupted 
and  almost  destroyed  their  friendship.  After  all,  his  enthusiasm 
was  of  a generous,  poetic  kind ; the  poems  remain  beautiful  monu- 
ments of  genius,  and  it  is  even  now  difficult  to  persuade  one’s 
self  that  they  could  be  entirely  the  productions  of  a youth  of 
sixteen. 

In  the  month  of  August  was  published  anonymously  the  His^ 
tory  of  England^  on  which  Goldsmith  had  been  for  some  time 
employed.  It  was  in  four  volumes,  compiled  chiefly,  as  he  ac- 
knowledged in  the  preface,  from  Rapin,  Carte,  Smollett,  and  Hume, 
“each  of  whom,”  says  he,  “have  their  admirers,  in  proportion  as 
the  reader  is  studious  of  political  antiquities,  fond  of  minute 
anecdote,  a warm  partisan,  or  a deliberate  reasoner.”  It  possessed 
the  same  kind  of  merit  as  his  other  historical  compilations ; a 
clear,  succinct  narrative,  a simple,  easy,  and  graceful  style,  and  an 
agreeable  arrangement  of  facts ; but  was  not  remarkable  for  either 
depth  of  observation  or  minute  accuracy  of  research.  Many  pas- 
sages were  transferred,  with  little  if  any  alteration,  from  his 
Letters  from  a Nohleman  to  his  Son  on  the  same  subject.  The 
work,  though  written  without  party  feeling,  met  with  sharp  ani- 
madversions from  political  scribblers.  The  writer  was  charged 
with  being  unfriendly  to  liberty,  disposed  to  elevate  monarchy 
above  its  proper  sphere;  a tool  of  ministers;  one  who  would 
betray  his  country  for  a pension.  Tom  Davies,  the  publisher,  the 


THE  HISTORY  OF  ENGLAND."" 


199 


pompous  little  bibliopole  of  Russell  Street,  alarmed  lest  the  book 
should  prove  unsalable,  undertook  to  protect  it  by  his  pen,  and 
wrote  a long  article  in  its  defence  in  The  Public  Advertiser, 
He  was  vain  of  his  criticiil  effusion,  and  sought  by  nods  and  winks 
and  innuendoes  to  intimate  his  authorship.  “ Have  you  seen,”  said 
he,  in  a letter  to  a friend,  ‘‘  ‘ An  Impartial  Account  of  Goldsmith’s 
History  of  England  ’ ? If  you  want  to  know  who  was  the  writer 
of  it,  you  will  find  him  in  Russell  Street ; — hut  mum  I ” 

The  History,  on  the  whole,  however,  was  well  received;  some 
of  the  critics  declared  that  English  history  had  never  before  been 
so  usefully,  so  elegantly,  and  agreeably  epitomized,  ‘‘  and,  like  his 
other  historical  writings,  it  has  kept  its  ground  ” in  English 
literature. 

Goldsmith  had  intended  this  summer,  in  company  with  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds,  to  pay  a visit  to  Rennet  Langton,  at  his  seat  in 
Lincolnshire,  where  he  was  settled  in  domestic  life,  having  the 
year  previously  married  the  Countess  Dowager  of  Rothes.  The 
following  letter,  however,  dated  from  his  chambers  in  the  Temple, 
on  the  7th  of  September,  apologizes  for  putting  off  the  visit,  while 
it  gives  an  amusing  account  of  his  summer  occupations  and  of  the 
attacks  of  the  critics  on  his  History  of  England  : — 

“ My  dear  Sir,  — 

“Since  I had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  last,  I have  been  almost 
wholly  in  the  country,  at  a farmer’s  house,  quite  alone,  trying  to  write 
a comedy.  It  is  now  finished  ; but  when  or  how  it  will  be  acted,  or 
whether  it  will  be  acted  at  all,  are  questions  I cannot  resolve.  I am 
therefore  so  much  employed  upon  that,  that  I am  under  the  necessity 
of  putting  off  my  intended  visit  to  Lincolnshire  for  this  season.  Rey- 
nolds is  just  returned  from  Paris,  and  finds  himself  now  in  the  case  of 
a truant  that  must  make  up  for  his  idle  time  by  diligence.  We  have 
therefore  agreed  to  postpone  our  journey  till  next  summer,  when  we 
hope  to  have  the  honor  of  waiting  upon  Lady  Rothes  and  you,  and 
staying  double  the  time  of  our  late  intended  visit.  We  often  meet, 
and  never  without  remembering  you.  I see  Mr.  Beauclerc  very  often 
both  in  town  and  country.  He  is  now  going  directly  forward  to  be- 
come a second  Boyle:  deep  in  chemistry  and  physics.  Johnson  has 
becix  down  on  a visit  to  a pountry  parson,  Doctor  Taylor,  and  is 


200 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


returned  to  his  old  haunts  at  Mrs.  Thrale’s.  Burke  is  a farmer,  en 
attendant  a better  place  ; but  visiting  about  too.  Every  soul  is  visiting 
about  and  merry  but  myself.  And  that  is  hard  too,  as  I have  been 
trying  these  three  months  to  do  something  to  make  people  laugh. 
There  have  I been  strolling  about  the  hedges,  studying  jests  with 
a most  tragical  countenance.  The  Natural  History  is  about  half 
finished,  and  I will  shortly  finish  the  rest.  God  knows  I am  tired  of 
this  kind  of  finishing,  which  is  but  bungling  work  ; and  that  not  so 
much  my  fault  as  the  fault  of  my  scurvy  circumstances.  They  begin 
to  talk  in  town  of  the  Opposition’s  gaining  ground  ; the  cry  of  liberty 
is  still  as  loud  as  ever.  I have  published,  or  Davies  has  published  for 
me,  an  Abridgment  of  the  History  of  England^  for  which  I have  been 
a good  deal  abused  in  the  newspapers,  for  betraying  the  liberties  of 
the  people.  God  knows  I had  no  thought  for  or  against  liberty  in  my 
head  ; my  whole  aim  being  to  make  up  a book  of  a decent  size,  that, 
as  ’Squire  Richard  says,  would  do  no  harm  to  nobody.  However,  they 
set  me  down  as  an  arrant  Tory,  and  consequently  an  honest  man. 
When  you  come  to  look  at  any  part  of  it,  you’ll  say  that  I am  a sore 
Whig.  God  bless  you,  and  with  my  most  respectful  compliments  to  her 
Ladyship,  I remain,  dear  Sir,  your  most  affectionate  humble  servant, 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith.” 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Though  Goldsmith  found  it  impossible  to  break  from  his 
literary  occupations  to  visit  Rennet  Langton,  in  Lincolnshire,  he 
soon  yielded  to  attractions  from  another  quarter,  in  which  some- 
what of  sentiment  may  have  mingled.  Miss  Catharine  Horneck, 
one  of  his  beautiful  fellow-travellers,  otherwise  called  Little  Com- 
edy^ had  been  married  in  August  to  Henry  William  Bunbury,  Esq., 
a gentleman  of  fortune,  who  has  become  celebrated  for  the  hu- 
morous productions  of  his  pencil.  Goldsmith  was  shortly  after- 
wards invited  to  pay  the  newly  married  couple  a visit  at  their 
seat,  at  Barton,  in  Suffolk.  How  could  he  resist  such  an  invita- 
tion— especially  as  the  Jessamy  Bride  would,  of  course,  be  among 
the  guests  ? It  is  true,  he  was  hampered  with  work  ; he  was 
still  more  hampered  with  debt ; his  accounts  with  Xewbery  were 


PRACTICAL  JOKES. 


201 


perplexed;  but  all  must  give  way.  New  advances  are  procured 
from  Newbery,  on  the  promise  of  a new  tale  in  the  style  of  the 
Vicar  of  Wakefield^  of  which  he  showed  him  a few  roughly- 
sketched  chapters;  so,  his  purse  replenished  in  the  old  way,  “by 
hook  or  by  crook,’’  he  posted  off  to  visit  the  bride  at  Barton.  He 
found  there  a joyous  household,  and  one  where  he  was  welcomed 
with  affection.  Garrick  was  there,  and  played  the  part  of  master 
of  the  revels,  for  he  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the  master  of  the 
house.  Notwithstanding  early  misunderstandings,  a social  inter- 
course between  the  actor  and  the  poet  had  grown  up  of  late,  from 
meeting  together  continually  in  the  same  circle.  A few  particulars 
have  reached  us  concerning  Goldsmith  while  on  this  happy  visit. 
We  believe  the  legend  has  come  down  from  Miss  Mary  Horneck 
herself.  “While  at  Barton,”  she  says,  “his  manners  were  always 
playfid  and  amusing,  taking  the  lead  in  promoting  any  scheme  of 
innocent  mirth,  and  usually  prefacing  the  invitation  with  ‘ Come, 
now,  let  us  play  the  fool  a little.’  At  cards,  which  was  commonly 
a round  game,  and  the  stake  small,  he  was  always  the  most  noisy, 
affected  great  eagerness  to  win,  and  teased  his  opponents  of  the 
gentler  sex  with  continual  jest  and  banter  on  their  want  of  spirit 
in  not  risking  the  hazards  of  the  game.  But  one  of  his  most  fa- 
vorite enjoyments  was  to  romp  with  the  children,  when  he  threw 
off  all  reserve,  and  seemed  one  of  the  most  joyous  of  the  group. 

“ One  of  the  means  by  which  he  amused  us  was  his  songs, 
chiefly  of  the  comic  kind,  which  were  sung  with  some  taste  and 
humor;  several,  I believe,  were  of  his  own  composition,  and  I 
regret  that  I neither  have  copies,  which  might  have  been  readily 
procured  from  him  at  the  time,  nor  do  I remember  their  names.” 

His  perfect  good- humor  made  him  the  object  of  tricks  of  all 
kinds ; often  in  retaliation  of  some  prank  which  he  himself  had 
played  off.  Unluckily,  these  tricks  were  sometimes  made  at  the 
expense  of  his  toilet,  which,  with  a view  peradventure  to  please 
the  eye  of  a certain  fair  lady,  he  had  again  enriched  to  the  impov- 
erishment of  his  purse.  “ Being  at  all  times  gay  in  his  dress,” 
says  this  ladylike  legend,  “ he  made  his  appearance  at  the  breakfast 


202 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


table  in  a smart  black  silk  coat  w itii  an  expensive  pair  of  ruffles ; 
the  coat  some  one  contrived  to  soil,  and  it  was  sent  to  be  cleansed ; 
but,  either  by  accident,  or  probably  by  design,  the  day  after  it 
came  home,  the  sleeves  became  daubed  with  paint,  which  was  not 
discovered  until  the  ruffles  also,  to  his  great  mortification,  were 
irretrievably  disfigured. 

‘‘  He  always  w^ore  a wig,  a peculiarity  which  those  who  judge  of 
his  appearance  only  from  the  fine  poetical  head  of  Reynolds  would 
not  suspect ; and  on  one  occasion  some  person  contrived  seriously 
to  injure  this  important  adjunct  to  dress.  It  was  the  only  one  he 
had  in  the  country,  and  the  misfortune  seemed  irreparable  until 
the  services  of  Mr.  Bunbury’s  valet  were  called  in,  who,  however, 
performed  his  functions  so  indifferently,  that  poor  Goldsmith’s 
appearance  became  the  signal  for  a general  smile.” 

This  was  wicked  waggery,  especially  when  it  was  directed  to 
mar  all  the  attempts  of  the  unfortunate  poet  to  improve  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  about  which  he  was  at  all  times  dubiously  sensi- 
tive, and  particularly  when  among  the  ladies. 

We  have  in  a former  chapter  recorded  his  unlucky  tumble  into 
a fountain  at  Versailles,  when  attempting  a feat  of  agility  ii: 
presence  of  the  fair  Hornecks.  Water  was  destined  to  be  equally 
baneful  to  him  on  the  present  occasion.  Some  difference  of 
opinion,”  says  the  fair  narrator,  “ having  arisen  with  Lord  Har- 
rington respecting  the  depth  of  a pond,  the  poet  remarked  that  it 
was  not  so  deep  but  that,  if  anything  valuable  was  to  be  found  at 
the  bottom,  he  would  not  hesitate  to  pick  it  up.  His  lordship, 
after  some  banter,  threw  in  a guinea  ; Goldsmith,  not  to  be  out- 
done in  this  kind  of  bravado,  in  attempting  to  fulfil  his  promise 
without  getting  wet,  accidentally  fell  in,  to  the  amusement  of  all 
present ; but  persevered,  brought  out  the  money,  and  kept  it, 
remarking  that  he  had  abundant  objects  on  whom  to  bestow  any 
farther  proofs  of  his  lordship’s  whim  or  bounty.” 

All  this  is  recorded  by  the  beautiful  Mary  Horneck,  the  Jessamy 
Bride  herself ; but  while  she  gives  these  amusing  pictures  of  poor 
Goldsmith’s  eccentricities,  and  of  the  mischievous  pranks  played 


LOST  MANUSCRIPT, 


203 


off  upon  him,  she  bears  unqualified  testimony,  which  we  have 
quoted  elsewhere,  to  the  qualities  of  his  head  and  heart,  which 
shone  forth  in  his  countenance,  and  gained  him  the  love  of  all  who 
knew  him. 

Among  the  circumstances  of  this  visit,  vaguely  called  to  mind 
by  this  fair  lady  in  after  years,  was  that  Goldsmith  read  to  her 
and  her  sister  the  first  part  of  a novel  which  he  had  in  hand.  It 
was  doubtless  the  manuscript  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of  this 
chapter,  on  which  he  had  obtained  an  advance  of  money  from 
Newbery  to  stave  off  some  pressing  debts,  and  to  provide  funds 
for  this  very  visit.  It  never  was  finished.  The  bookseller,  when 
he  came  afterwards  to  examine  the  manuscript,  objected  to  it  as  a 
mere  narrative  version  of  the  Good-natured  Man.  Goldsmith, 
too  easily  put  out  of  conceit  of  his  writings,  threw  it  aside,  for- 
getting that  this  was  the  very  Newbery  who  kept  his  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  by  him  nearly  two  years,  through  doubts  of  its  suc- 
cess. The  loss  of  the  manuscript  is  deeply  to  be  regretted ; it 
doubtless  would  have  been  properly  wrought  up  before  given  to 
the  press,  and  might  have  given  us  new  scenes  of  life  and  traits  of 
character,  while  it  could  not  fail  to  bear  traces  of  his  delightful 
style.  What  a pity  he  had  not  been  guided  by  the  opinions  of  his 
fair  listeners  at  Barton,  instead  of  that  of  the  astute  Mr.  Newbery  ! 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

We  have  mentioned  old  General  Oglethorpe  as  one  of  Gold- 
smith’s aristocratical  acquaintances.  This  veteran,  born  in  1698, 
had  commenced  life  early,  by  serving,  when  a mere  stripling, 
under  Prince  Eugene,  against  the  Turks.  He  had  continued  in 
military  life,  and  been  promoted  to  the  rank  of  major-general  in 
1745,  and  received  a command  during  the  Scottish  rebellion. 
Being  of  strong  Jacobite  tendencies,  he  was  suspected  and  accused 
of  favoring  the  rebels  ; and  though  acquitted  by  a court  of  inquiry, 
was  never  afterwards  employed ; or,  in  technical  language,  was 


204 


OLIVER  GOLDSmiH. 


shelved.  He  had  since  been  repeatedly  a member  of  Parliament, 
and  had  always  distinguished  himself  by  learning,  taste,  active 
benevolence,  and  high  Tory  principles.  His  name,  however,  has 
become  historical,  chiefly  from  his  transactions  in  America,  and 
the  share  he  took  in  the  settlement  of  the  colony  of  Georgia. 
It  lies  embalmed  in  honorable  immortality  in  a single  line  of 
Pope’s  : — 

“ One,  driven  by  strong  benevolence  of  soul^ 

Shall  fly,  like  Oglethorpe,  from  pole  to  pole.” 

The  veteran  was  now  seventy-four  years  of  age,  but  healthy  and 
vigorous,  and  as  much  the  preux  chevalier  as  in  his  younger  days, 
when  he  served  with  Prince  Eugene.  His  table  was  often  the 
gathering-place  of  men  of  talent.  Johnson  was  frequently  there, 
and  delighted  in  drawing  from  the  General  details  of  his  various 
“ experiences.”  He  was  anxious  that  he  should  give  the  world 
his  life.  “ I know  no  man,”  said  he,  “ whose  life  would  be  more 
interesting.”  Still  the  vivacity  of  the  General’s  mind  and  the 
variety  of  his  knowledge  made  him  skip  from  subject  to  subject 
too  fast  for  the  Lexicographer.  “ Oglethorpe,”  groAvled  he, 
“never  completes  what  he  has  to  say.” 

Boswell  gives  us  an  interesting  and  characteristic  account  of  a 
dinner-party  at  the  General’s,  (April  10th,  1772,)  at  which  Gold- 
smith and  Johnson  were  present.  After  dinner,  when  the  cloth 
was  removed,  Oglethorpe,  at  Johnson’s  request,  gave  an  account  of 
the  siege  of  Belgrade,  in  the  true  veteran  style.  Pouring  a little 
wine  upon  the  table,  he  drew  his  lines  and  parallels  with  a wet 
finger,  describing  the  positions  of  the  opposing  forces.  “Here 
were  we  — here  were  the  Turks,”  to  all  which  Johnson  listened 
with  the  most  earnest  attention,  poring  over  the  plans  and  dia- 
grams with  his  usual  purblind  closeness. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  the  General  gave  an  anecdote  of 
himself  in  early  life,  when  serving  under  Prince  Eugene.  Sitting 
at  table  once  in  company  with  a prince  of  Wurtemberg,  the  latter 
gave  a fillip  to  a glass  of  wine,  so  as  to  make  some  of  it  fly  in 
Oglethorpe’s  face.  The  manner  in  which  it  was  done  was  some- 


DISPUTE  ABOUT  DUELLING, 


205 


what  equivocal.  How  was  it  to  be  taken  by  the  stripling  officer  ? 
If  seriously,  he  must  challenge  the  prince ; but  in  so  doing  he 
might  fix  on  himself  the  character  of  a drawcansir.  If  passed 
over  without  notice,  he  might  be  charged  with  cowardice.  His 
mind  was  made  up  in  an  instant.  “Prince,”  said  he,  smiling, 
“that  is  an  excellent  joke;  but  we  do  it  much  better  in  Eng- 
land.” So  saying  he  threw  a whole  glass  of  wine  in  the  Prince’s 
face.  “Ha  bien  fait,  mon  Prince,”  cried  an  old  General  present, 
“vous  I’avez  commence.”  (He  has  done  right,  my  Prince;  you 
commenced  it.)  The  Prince  had  the  good  sense  to  acquiesce  in 
the  decision  of  the  veteran,  and  Oglethorpe’s  retort  in  kind  was 
taken  in  good  part. 

It  was  probably  at  the  close  of  this  story  that  the  officious  Bos- 
well, ever  anxious  to  promote  conversation  for  the  benefit  of  his 
note-book,  started  the  question  whether  duelling  were  consistent 
with  moral  duty.  The  old  General  fired  up  in  an  instant.  “Un- 
doubtedly,” said  he,  with  a lofty  air;  “undoubtedly  a man  has  a 
right  to  defend  his  honor.”  Goldsmith  immediately  carried  the 
war  into  Boswell’s  own  quarters,  and  pinned  him  with  the  ques- 
tion, “ what  he  would  do  if  affronted  h ” The  pliant  Boswell,  who 
for  a moment  had  the  fear  of  the  General  rather  than  of  Johnson 
before  his  eyes,  replied,  “ he  should  think  it  necessary  to  fight.” 
“ Why,  then,  that  solves  the  question,”  replied  Goldsmith.  “ No, 
sir!”  thundered  out  Johnson;  “it  does  not  follow  that  what  a 
man  would  do,  is  therefore  right.”  He,  however,  subsequently 
went  into  a discussion  to  show  that  there  were  necessities  in  the 
case  arising  out  of  the  artificial  refinement  of  society,  and  its  pro- 
scription of  any  one  who  should  put  up  with  an  affront  without 
fighting  a duel.  “He,  then,”  concluded  he,  “who  fights  a duel 
does  not  fight  from  passion  against  his  antagonist,  but  out  of  self- 
defence,  to  avert  the  stigma  of  the  world,  and  to  prevent  himself 
from  being  driven  out  of  society.  I could  wish  there  were  not 
that  superfluity  of  refinement ; but  Avhile  such  notions  prevail,  no 
doubt  a man  may  lawfully  fight  a duel.” 

Another  question  started  was,  whether  people  who  disagreed  on  a 


206 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


capital  point  could  live  together  in  friendship.  Johnson  said  they 
might.  Goldsmith  said  they  could  not,  as  they  had  not  the  idem 
velleatque  idem  nolle  — the  same  likings  and  aversions.  Johnson 
rejoined,  that  they  must  shun  the  subject  on  which  they  disagreed. 
“ But,  sir,”  said  Goldsmith,  when  people  live  together  who  have 
something  as  to  which  they  disagree,  and  which  they  want  to  shun, 
they  will  be  in  the  situation  mentioned  in  the  story  of  Blue  Beard  : 
‘ you  may  look  into  all  the  chambers  but  one ; ’ but  we  should 
have  the  greatest  inclination  to  look  into  that  chamber,  to  talk  of 
that  subject.”  ‘‘Sir,”  thundered  Johnson,  in  a loud  voice,  “I  am 
not  saying  that  ^ou  could  live  in  friendship  with  a man  from  whom 
you  differ  as  to  some  point ; I am  only  saying  that  / could  do  it.” 

Who  will  not  say  that  Goldsmith  had  the  best  of  this  petty 
contest  ? How  just  was  his  remark  ! how  felicitous  the  illustra- 
tion of  the  blue  chamber ! how  rude  and  overbearing  was  the 
argumentum  ad  hominem  of  Johnson,  when  he  felt  that  he  had 
the  worst  of  the  argument ! 

The  conversation  turned  upon  ghosts.  General  Oglethorpe  told 
the  story  of  a Colonel  Prendergast,  an  officer  in  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough’s army,  who  predicted  among  his  comrades  that  he  should 
die  on  a certain  day.  The  battle  of  Malplaquet  took  place  on 
that  day.  The  Colonel  was  in  the  midst  of  it,  but  came  out  un- 
hurt. The  firing  had  ceased,  and  his  brother  officers  jested  with 
him  about  the  fallacy  of  his  prediction.  “ The  day  is  not  over,” 
replied  he,  gravely ; “I  shall  die  notwithstanding  what  you  see.” 
His  words  proved  true.  The  order  for  a cessation  of  firing  had 
not  reached  one  of  the  French  batteries,  and  a fandom  shot  from  it 
killed  the  Colonel  on  the  spot.  Among  his  effects  was  found  a 
pocket-book  in  which  he  had  made  a solemn  entry,  that  Sir  John 
Friend,  who  had  been  executed  for  high  treason,  had  appeared  to 
him,  either  in  a dream  or  vision,  and  predicted  that  he  would 
meet  him  on  a certain  day  (the  very  day  of  the  battle).  Colonel 
Cecil,  who  took  possession  of  the  effects  of  Colonel  Prendergast, 
and  read  the  entry  in  the  pocket-book,  told  this  story  to  Pope,  the 
poet,  in  the  presence  of  General  Oglethorpe, 


JOSEPH  CRADOCK, 


207 


This  story,  as  related  by  the  General,  appears  to  have  been  well 
received,  if  not  credited,  by  both  Johnson  and  Goldsmith,  each  of 
whom  had  something  to  relate  in  kind.  Goldsmith’s  brother, 
the  clergyman  in  whom  he  had  such  implicit  confidence,  had 
assured  him  of  his  having  seen  an  apparition.  Johnson  also  had 
a friend,  old  Mr.  Cave,  the  printer,  at  St.  John’s  Gate,  “an  honest 
man,  and  a sensible  man/’  who  told  him  he  had  seen  a ghost ; he 
did  not,  however,  like  to  talk  of  it,  and  seemed  to  be  in  great 
horror  whenever  it  was  mentioned.  “And  pray,  sir,”  asked  Bos- 
well, “what  did  he  say  was  the  appearance?”  “Why,  sir, 
something  of  a shadowy  being.” 

The  reader  will  not  be  surprised  at  this  superstitious  turn  in  the 
conversation  of  such  intelligent  men,  when  he  recollects  that,  but 
a few  years  before  this  time,  all  London  had  been  agitated  by 
the  absurd  story  of  the  Cock-lane  ghost ; a matter  which  Dr. 
Johnson  had  deemed  worthy  of  his  serious  investigation,  and  about 
which  Goldsmith  had  written  a pamphlet. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

Among  the  agreeable  acquaintances  made  by  Goldsmith  about 
this  time  was  a Mr.  Joseph  Cradock,  a young  gentleman  of 
Leicestershire,  living  at  his  ease,  but  disposed  to  “ make  himself 
uneasy,”  by  meddling  with  literature  and  the  theatre ; in  fact,  he 
had  a passion  for  plays  and  players,  and  had  come  up  to  town 
with  a modified  translation  of  Voltaire’s  tragedy  of  Zoheide,  in  a 
view  to  get  it  acted.  There  was  no  great  difficulty  in  the  case,  as 
he  was  a man  of  fortune,  had  letters  of  introduction  to  persons  of 
note,  and  was  altogether  in  a different  position  from  the  indigent 
man  of  genius  whom  managers  might  harass  with  impunity. 
Goldsmith  met  him  at  the  house  of  Yates,  the ‘actor,  and  finding 
that  he  was  a friend  of  Lord  Clare,  soon  became  sociable  with 
him.  Mutual  tastes  quickened  the  intimacy,  especially  as  they 
found  means  of  serving  each  other.  Goldsmith  wrote  an  epilogue 


208 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


for  the  tragedy  of  Zoheide  : and  Cradock,  who  was  an  amateur 
musician,  arranged  the  music  for  the  Tlirenodia  Augustalis,  a 
Lament  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales,  the  politi- 
cal mistress  and  patron  of  Lord  Clare,  which  Goldsmith  had 
thrown  off  hastily  to  please  that  nobleman.  The  tragedy  was 
played  with  some  success  at  Covent  Garden  ; the  Lament  was  recited 
and  sung  at  Mrs.  Cornelys’  rooms  — a very  fashionable  resort  in 
Soho  Square,  got  up  by  a woman  of  enterprise  of  that  name.  It 
was  in  whimsical  parody  of  those  gay  and  somewhat  promiscuous 
assemblages  that  Goldsmith  used  to  call  the  motley  evening 
parties  at  his  lodgings  ‘‘little  Cornelys.’’ 

The  Tlirenodia  AugustalU  was  not  publicly  known  to  be  by 
Goldsmith  until  several  years  after  his  death. 

Cradock  was  one  of  the  few  polite  intimates  who  felt  more 
disposed  to  sympathize  with  the  generous  qualities  of  the  poet 
than  to  sport  with  his  eccentricities.  He  sought  his  society  when- 
ever he  came  to  town,  and  occasionally  had  him  to  his  seat  in  the 
country.  Goldsmith  appreciated  his  sympathy,  and  unburdened 
himself  to  him  without  reserve.  Seeing  the  lettered  ease  in  which 
this  amateur  author  was  enabled  to  live,  and  the  time  he  could 
bestow  on  the  elaboration  of  a manuscript,  “Ah  ! Mr.  Cradock,’^ 
cried  he,  “ think  of  me,  that  must  write  a volume  every  month  ! ” 
He  complained  to  him  of  the  attempts  made  by  inferior  writers, 
and  by  others  who  could  scarcely  come  under  that  denomination, 
not  only  to  abuse  and  depreciate  his  writings,  but  to  render  him 
ridiculous  as  a man ; perverting  every  harmless  sentiment  and 
action  into  charges  of  absurdity,  malice,  or  folly.  “ Sir,^’  said  he, 
in  the  fulness  of  his  heart,  “ I am  as  a lion  baited  by  curs  ! ’’ 

Another  acquaintance,  which  he  made  about  this  time,  was  a 
young  countryman  of  the  name  of  M ‘Donnell,  whom  he  met  in  a 
state  of  destitution,  and,  of  course,  befriended.  The  following 
grateful  recollectiohs  of  his  kindness  and  his  merits  were  furnished 
by  that  person  in  after  years  : — 

“It  was  in  the  year  1772,'’  writes  he,  “ tliat  the  death  of  my 
elder  brother  — when  in  London,  on  my  way  to  Ireland  — left  me 


AN  AMANUENSIS, 


209 


in  a most  forlorn  situation ; I was  then  about  eighteen ; I pos- 
sessed neither  friends  nor  money,  nor  the  means  of  getting  to  Ire- 
land, of  which  or  of  England  I knew  scarcely  anything,  from 
having  so  long  resided  in  France.  In  this  situation  I had  strolled 
about  for  two  or  three  days,  considering  what  to  do,  but  unable  to 
come  to  any  determination,  when  Providence  directed  me  to  the 
Temple  Gardens.  I threw  myself  on  a seat,  and,  willing  to  forget 
my  miseries  for  a moment,  drew  out*  a book ; that  book  was  a 
volume  of  Boileau.  I had  not  been  there  long  when  a gentleman, 
strolling  about,  passed  near  me,  and  observing,  perhaps,  something 
Irish  or  foreign  in  my  garb  or  countenance,  addressed  me  ; ‘ Sir, 
you  seem  studious ; I hope  you  find  this  a favorable  place  to  pursue 
it.’  ‘ Not  very  studious,  sir ; I fear  it  is  the  want  of  society  that 
brings  me  hither  ; I am  solitary  and  unknown  in  this  metropolis  ; ’ 
and  a passage  from  Cicero  — Oratio  pro  Archia  — occurring  to  me, 
I quoted  it : ‘ Hsec  studia  pernoctant  nobiscum,  peregrinantur, 
rusticantur.’  ‘You  are  a scholar,  too,  sir,  I perceive.’  ‘A  piece  of 
one,  sir ; but  I ought  still  to  have  been  in  the  college  where  I had 
the  good  fortune  to  pick  up  the  little  I know.’  A good  deal  of  con- 
versation ensued ; I told  him  part  of  my  history,  and  he,  in  return, 
gave  his  address  in  the  Temple,  desiring  me  to  call  soon,  from  which, 
to  my  infinite  surprise  and  gratification,  I found  that  the  person 
who  thus  seemed  to  take  an  interest  in  my  fate  was  my  country- 
man, and  a distinguished  ornament  of  letters. 

“ I did  not  fail  to  keep  the  appointment,  and  was  received  in 
the  kindest  manner.  He  told  me,  smilingly,  that  he  was  not  rich ; 
that  he  could  do  little  for  me  in  direct  pecuniary  aid,  but  would 
endeavor  to  put  me  in  the  way  of  doing  something  for  myself ; 
observing,  that  he  could  at  least  furnish  me  with  advice  not 
wholly  useless  to  a young  man  placed  in  the  heart  of  a great  me- 
tropolis. ‘In  London,’ he  continued,  ‘nothing  is  to  be  got  for 
nothing ; you  must  work ; and  no  man  who  chooses  to  be  indus- 
trious need  be  under  obligations  to  another,  for  here  labor  of  every 
kind  commands  its  reward.  If  you  think  proper  to  assist  me 
occasionally  as  amanuensis,  I shall  be  obliged,  and  you  will  be 


210 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


placed  under  no  obligation,  until  something  more  permanent  can 
be  secured  for  you.’  This  employment,  which  I pursued  for  some 
time,  was  to  translate  passages  from  Buffon,  which  were  abridged 
or  altered,  according  to  circumstances,  for  his  Natural  History V 

Goldsmith’s  literary  tasks  were  fast  getting  ahead  of  him,  and 
he  began  now  to  ‘‘toil  after  them  in  vain.” 

Five  volumes  of  the  Natural  History  here  spoken  of  had  long 
since  been  paid  for  by  Mr*  Griffin,  yet  most  of  them  were  still  to 
be  written.  His  young  amanuensis  bears  testimony  to  his  embar- 
rassments and  peri^lexities,  but  to  the  degree  of  equanimity  with 
which  he  bore  them  : — 

“It  has  been  said,”  observes  he,  “that  he  was  irritable.  Such 
may  have  been  the  case  at  times ; nay,  I believe  it  was  so ; for 
what  with  the  continual  pursuit  of  authors,  printers,  and  book- 
sellers, and  occasional  pecuniary  embarrassments,  few  could  have 
avoided  exhibiting  similar  marks  of  impatience.  But  it  was  never 
so  towards  me.  I saw  him  only  in  his  bland  and  kind  moods, 
with  a flow,  perhaps  an  overflow,  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness 
for  all  who  were  in  any  manner  dependent  upon  him.  I looked 
upon  him  with  awe  and  veneration,  and  he  upon  me  as  a kind 
parent  upon  a child. 

“ His  manner  and  address  exhibited  much  frankness  and  cor- 
diality, particularly  to  those  with  whom  he  possessed  any  degree 
of  intimacy.  His  good-nature  was  equally  apparent.  You  could 
not  dislike  the  man,  although  several  of  his  follies  and  foibles  you 
might  be  tempted  to  condemn.  He  was  generous  and  inconsid- 
erate ; money  with  him  had  little  value.” 

To  escape  from  many  of  the  tormentors  just  alluded  to,  and  to 
devote  himself  without  interruption  to  his  task.  Goldsmith  took 
lodgings  for  the  summer  at  a farm-house  near  the  six-mile  stone 
on  the  Edge  ware  road,  and  carried  down  his  books  in  two  return 
post-chaises.  He'  used  to  say  he  believed  the  farmer’s  family 
thought  him  an  odd  character,  similar  to  that  in  which  the  Specta^ 
tor  appeared  to  his  landlady  and  her  children ; he  was  The  Gentle- 
mm*  Boswell  tells  us  that  he  went  to  visit  him  at  the  place  in 


SUMMKIi  LODGINGS, 


211 


company  with  Mickle,  translator  of  the  Lusiad.  Goldsmith  was 
not  at  home.  Having  a curiosity  to  see  his  apartment,  however, 
they  went  in,  and  found  curious  scraps  of  descriptions  of  animals 
scrawled  upon  the  wall  with  a black-lead  pencil. 

The  farm-house  in  question  is  still  in  existence,  though  much 
altered.  It  stands  upon  a gentle  eminence  in  Hyde  Lane,  com 
manding  a pleasant  prospect  towards  Hendon.  The  room  is  still 
pointed  out  in  which  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  was  written ; a 
convenient  and  airy  apartment,  up  one  flight  of  stairs. 

Some  matter-of-fact  traditions  concerning  the  author  were  fur- 
nished, a few  years  since,  by  a son  of  the  farmer,  who  was  sixteen 
years  of  age  at  the  time  Goldsmith  resided  with  his  father. 
Though  he  had  engaged  to  board  with  the  family,  his  meals  were 
generally  sent  to  him  in  his  room,  in  which  he  passed  the  most 
of  his  time,  negligently  dressed,  with  his  shirt-collar  open,  busily 
engaged  in  writing.  Sometimes,  probably  when  in  moods  of  com- 
position, he  would  wander  into  the  kitchen,  without  noticing 
any  one,  stand  musing  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  then  hurry 
off  again  to  his  room,  no  doubt  to  commit  to  paper  some  thought 
which  had  struck  him. 

Sometimes  he  strolled  about  the  fields,  or  was  to  be  seen  loiter- 
ing and  reading  and  musing  under  the  hedges.  He  was  subject  to 
fits  of  wakefulness,  and  read  much  in  bed  ; if  not  disposed  to  read, 
he  still  kept  the  candle  burning ; if  he  wished  to  extinguish  it, 
and  it  was  out  of  his  reach,  he  flung  his  slipper  at  it,  which  would 
be  found  in  the  morning  near  the  overturned  candlestick  and 
daubed  with  grease.  He  was  noted  here,  as  everywhere  else,  for 
his  charitable  feelings.  No  beggar  applied  to  him  in  vain, 
and  he  evinced  on  all  occasions  great  commiseration  for  the 
poor. 

He  had  the  use  of  the  parlor  to  receive  and  entertain  company, 
and  was  visited  by  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Hugh  Boyd,  the  reputed 
author  of  Junius^  Sir  William  Chambers,  and  other  distinguished 
characters.  He  gave  occasionally,  though  rarely,  a dinner-party  ; 
and  on  one  occasion,  when  his  guests  were  detained  by  a thunder 


212 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


shower,  he  got  up  a dance,  and  carried  the  merriment  late  into 
he  night. 

Ao  usual,  he  was  the  promoter  of  hilarity  among  the  young, 
ind  at  one  time  took  the  children  of  the  house  to  see  a company 
of  strolling  players  at  Hendon.  The  greatest  amusement  to  the 
party,  however,  was  derived  from  his  own  jokes  on  the  road  and 
his  comments  on  the  performance,  which  produced  infinite  laughter 
among  his  youthful  companions. 

Near  to  his  rural  retreat  at  Edge  ware,  a Mr.  Seguin,  an  Irish 
merchant,  of  literary  tastes,  had  country  quarters  for  his  family, 
where  Goldsmith  was  always  welcome. 

In  this  family  he  would  indulge  in  playful  and  even  grotesque 
humor,  and  was  ready  for  anything  — conversation,  music,  or  a 
game  of  romps.  He  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing,  and  would 
walk  a minuet  with  Mrs.  Seguin,  to  the  infinite  amusement  of  her- 
self and-  the  children,  whose  shouts  of  laughter  he  bore  with  per- 
fect good-humor.  He  would  sing  Irish  songs,  and  the  Scotch 
ballad  of  Johnny  Armstrong.  He  took  the  lead  in  the  children’s 
sports  of  blind-man’s-buff,  hunt  the  slipper,  &c.,  or  in  their  games 
at  cards,  and  was  the  most  noisy  of  the  party,  affecting  to  cheat 
and  to  be  excessively  eager  to  win  ; while  with  children  of  smaller 
size  he  would  turn  the  hind  part  of  his  wig  before,  and  play  all 
kinds  of  tricks  to  amuse  them. 

One  word  as  to  his  musical  skill  and  his  performance  on  the 
flute,  which  conies  up  so  invariably  in  all  his  fireside  revels.  He 
really  knew  nothing  of  music  scientifically ; he  had  a good  ear, 
and  may  have  played  sweetly;  but  we  are  told  he  could  not  read 
a note  of  music.  Roubiliac,  the  statuary,  once  played  a trick 
upon  him  in  this  respect.  He  pretended  to  score  down  an  air  as 
the  poet  played  it,  but  put  down  crotchets  and  semibreves  at  ran- 
dom. When  he  had  finished.  Goldsmith  cast  his  eye  over  it  and 
pronounced  it  correct ! It  is  possible  that  his  execution  in  music 
was  like  his  style  in  writing ; in  sweetness  and  melody  he  may 
have  snatched  a grace  beyond  the  reach  of  art ! 

He  was  at  all  times  a capital  companion  for  children,  and  knew 


LIFE  AT  EDO EW ARE, 


213 


bow  to  fall  in  with  their  humors.  “ I little  thought,”  said  Miss 
Hawkins,  the  woman  grown,  “ what  I should  have  to  boast  when 
Goldsmith  taught  me  to  play  Jack  and  Jill  by  two  bits  of  paper 
on  his  fingers.”  He  entertained  Mrs.  Garrick,  we  are  told,  with  a 
whole  budget  of  stories  and  songs ; delivered  the  Chimney  Sweep 
with  exquisite  taste  as  a solo ; and  performed  a duet  with  Garrick 
of  Old  Rose  and  Burn  the  Belloivs. 

“ I was  only  five  years  old,”  says  the  late  George  Colman, 
“ when  Goldsmith  one  evening,  when  drinking  coffee  with  my 
father,  took  me  on  his  knee  and  began  to  play  with  me,  which 
amiable  act  I returned  with  a very  smart  slap  in  the  face ; it  must 
have  been  a tingler,  for  I left  the  marks  of  my  little  spiteful  paw 
upon  his  cheek.  This  infantile  outrage  was  followed  by  summary 
justice,  and  I was  locked  up  by  my  father  in  an  adjoining  room,  to 
undergo  solitary  imprisonment  in  the  dark.  Here  I began  to  howl 
and  scream  most  abominably.  At  length  a friend  appeared  to  ex- 
tricate me  from  jeopardy  ; it  was  the  good-natured  Doctor  himself, 
with  a lighted  candle  in  his  hand,  and  a smile  upon  his  counte- 
nance, which  was  still  partially  red  from  the  effects  of  my  petulance. 
I sulked  and  sobbed,  and  he  fondled  and  soothed  until  I began  to 
brighten.  He  seized  the  propitious  moment,  placed  three  hats 
upon  the  carpet,  and  a shilling  under  each;  the  shillings,  he  told 
me,  were  England,  France,  and  Spain.  ‘ Hey,  presto,  cocko- 
lorum  ! ^ cried  the  Doctor,  and,  lo  ! on  uncovering  the  shillings, 
they  were  all  found  congregated  under  one.  I was  no  politician  at 
the  time,  and  therefore  might  not  have  wondered  at  the  sudden 
revolution  which  brought  England,  France,  and  Spain  all  under 
one  crown;  but,  as  I was  also  no  conjurer,  it  amazed  me  beyond 
measure.  From  that  time,  whenever  the  Doctor  came  to  visit  my 
father, 

“ ‘ I pluck’d  his  gown  to  share  the  good  man’s  smile ; ’ 

a game  of  romps  constantly  ensued,  and  we  were  always  cordial 
friends  and  merry  playfellows.” 

Although  Goldsmith  made  the  Edge  ware  farm-house  his  head- 
quarters for  the  summer,  he  would  absent  himself  for  weeks  at  a 


214 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


time  on  visits  to  Mr.  Cradock,  Lord  Clare,  and  Mr.  Langton,  at 
their  country-seats.  He  would  often  visit  town,  also,  to  dine  and 
partake  of  the  public  amusements.  On  one  occasion  he  accom- 
panied Edmund  Burke  to  witness  a performance  of  the  Italian 
Fantoccini  or  Puppets,  in  Panton  Street ; an  exhibition  which  had 
hit  the  caprice  of  the  town,  and  was  in  a great  vogue.  The 
puppets  were  set  in  motion  by  wires,  so  well  concealed  as  to  be 
with  difficulty  detected.  Boswell,  with  his  usual  obtuseness  with 
respect  to  G-oldsmith,  accuses  him  of  being  jealous  of  the  puppets  ! 
“ When  Burke,”  said  he,  praised  the  dexterity  with  which  one 
of  them  tossed  a pike,  ‘ Pshaw,’ said  Goldsmith  with  some  warmth^ 
‘ I can  do  it  better  myself.’  ” “ The  same  evening,”  adds  Boswell, 

“ when  supping  at  Burke’s  lodgings,  he  broke  his  shin  by  attempt- 
ing to  exhibit  to  the  company  how  much  better  he  could  jump 
over  a stick  than  the  puppets.” 

Goldsmith  jealous  of  puppets  ! This  even  passes  in  absurdity 
Boswell’s  charge  upon  him  of  being  jealous  of  the  beauty  of  the 
two  Miss  Hornecks. 

The  Panton-Street  puppets  were  destined  to  be  a source  of 
further  amusement  to  the  town,  and  of  annoyance  to  the  little 
autocrat  of  the  stage.  Foote,  the  Aristophanes  of  the  English 
drama,  who  was  always  on  the  alert  to  turn  every  subject  of 
popular  excitement  to  account,  seeing  the  success  of  the  Fantoccini, 
gave  out  that  he  should  produce  a Primitive  Puppet-Show  at  the 
Haymarket,  to  be  entitled  The  Handsome  Chambermaid,,  or 
Piety  in  Pattens  ; intended  to  burlesque  the  sentimental  comedy 
which  Garrick  still  maintained  at  Drury  Lane.  The  idea  of  a play 
to  be  performed  in  a regular  theatre  by  puppets  excited  the  curi- 
osity and  talk  of  the  town.  “ Will  your  puppets  be  as  large  as 
life,  Mr.  Foote  ? ” demanded  a lady  of  rank.  ‘‘  Oh,  no,  my  ladyi” 
replied  Foote,  “ not  much  larger  than  GarrickP 


DISSIPATION  AND  DEBTS. 


215 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

Goldsmith  returned  to  town  in  the  autumn  (1772),  with  his 
health  much  disordered.  His  close  fits  of  sedentary  application, 
during  which  he  in  a manner  tied  himself  to  the  mast,  had  laid  the 
seeds  of  a lurking  malady  in  his  system,  and  produced  a severe 
illness  in  the  course  of  the  summer.  Town-life  was  not  favorable 
to  the  health  either  of  body  or  mind.  He  could  not  resist  the 
siren  voice  of  temptation,  which,  now  that  he  had  become  a noto- 
riety, assailed  him  on  every  side.  Accordingly  we  find  him  launch- 
ing away  in  a career  of  social  dissipation ; dining  and  supping 
out ; at  clubs,  at  routs,  at  theatres ; he  is  a guest  with  Johnson 
at  the  Thrales’,  and  an  object  of  Mrs.  Thrale’s  lively  sallies ; he  is 
a lion  at  Mrs.  Vesey’s  and  Mrs.  Montagu’s,  where  some  of  the 
high-bred  blue-stockings  pronounce  him  a “ wild  genius,”  and 
others,  peradventure,  a “wild  Irishman.”  In  the  meantime  his 
pecuniary  difficulties  are  increasing  upon  him,  conflicting  with  his 
proneness  to  pleasure  and  expense,  and  contributing  by  the  harass- 
ment of  his  mind  to  the  wear  and  tear  of  his  constitution.  His 
Animated  Nature,  though  not  finished,  has  been  entirely  paid  for, 
and  the  money  spent.  The  money  advanced  by  Garrick  on  Xew- 
bery’s  note,  still  hangs  over  him  as  a debt.  The  tale  on  which 
Newbery  had  loaned  from  two  to  three  hundred  pounds' previous 
to  the  excursion  to  Barton,  has  proved  a failure.  The  bookseller 
is  urgent  for  the  settlement  of  his  complicated  account ; the  per- 
plexed author  has  nothing  to  offer  him  in  liquidation  but  the  copy- 
right of  the  comedy  which  he  has  in  his  portfolio  ; “ Though,  to 
tell  you  the  truth,  Frank,”  said  he,  “ there  are  great  doubts  of  its 
success.”  The  offer  was  accepted,  and,  like  bargains  wrung  from 
Goldsmith  in  times  of  emergency,  turned  out  a golden  speculation 
to  the  bookseller. 

In  this  way  Goldsmith  went  on  “overrunning  the  constable,” 
as  he  termed  it ; spending  everything  in  advance  ; working  with 
m overtasked  head  ^tkI  weary  heart  to  pay  for  past  pleasures 


216 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


and  past  extravagance,  and  at  the  same  time  incurring  new  debts, 
to  perpetuate  his  struggles  and  darken  his  future  prospects.  While 
the  excitement  of  society  and  the  excitement  of  composition  con- 
spire to  keep  up  a feverishness  of  the  system,  he  has  incurred  an 
unfortunate  habit  of  quacking  himself  with  James’s  powders,  a 
fashionable  panacea  of  the  day. 

A farce,  produced  this  year  by  Garrick,  and  entitled  The  Irish 
JFidow,  perpetuates  the  memory  of  practical  jokes  played  off  a 
year  or  two  previously  upon  the  alleged  vanity  of  poor,  simple- 
hearted  Goldsmith.  He  was  one  evening  at  the  house  of  his  friend 
Burke,  when  he  was  beset  by  a tenth  muse,  an  Irish  widow  and 
authoress,  just  arrived  from  Ireland,  full  of  brogue  and  blundeis, 
and  poetic  fire  and  rantipole  gentility.  She  was  soliciting  sub- 
scriptions for  her  poems,  and  assailed  Goldsmith  for  his  patron- 
age; the  great  Goldsmith  — her  countryman,  and  of  course  her 
friend.  She  overpowered  him  with  eulogiums  on  his  own  poems, 
and  then  read  some  of  her  own,  with  vehemence  of  tone  and  ges- 
ture, appealing  continually  to  the  great  Goldsmith  to  know  how 
he  relished  them. 

Poor  Goldsmith  did  all  that  a kind-hearted  and  gallant  gentle- 
man could  do  in  such  a case ; he  praised  her  poems  as  far  as  the 
stomach  of  his  sense  would  permit  — perhaps  a little  further  ; he 
offered  her  his  subscription ; and  it  was  not  until  she  had  retired 
with  many  parting  compliments  to  the  great  Goldsmith,  that  he 
pronounced  the  poetry  which  had  been  inflicted  on  him  exedrable. 
The  whole  scene  had  been  a hoax  got  up  by  Burke  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  his  company ; and  the  Irish  widow,  so  admirably  per- 
formed, had  been  personated  by  a Mrs.  Balfour,  a lady  of  his 
connection,  of  great  sprightliness  and  talent. 

We  see  nothing  in  the  story  to  establish  the  alleged  vanity  of 
Goldsmith,  but  we  think  it  tells  rather  to  the  disadvantage  of 
Burke,  — being  unwarrantable  under  their  relations  of  friendship, 
and  a species  of  waggery  quite  beneath  his  genius. 

Croker,  in  his  notes  to  Boswell,  gives  another  of  these  practical 
jokes  perpetrated  by  Bfirke  at  the  expense  of  Goldsmith’s  credulity. 


PBACTICAL  JOKES. 


217 


It  was  related  to  Croker  by  Colonel  O’Moore,  of  Cloghan  Castle, 
ill  Ireland,  who  was  a party  concerned.  The  Colonel  and  Burke, 
walking  one  day  through  Leicester  Square  on  their  way  to  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds’s,  with  whom  they  were  to  dine,  observed  Gold- 
smith, who  was  likewise  to  be  a guest,  standing  and  regarding  a 
crowd  which  was  staring  and  shouting  at  some  foreign  ladies  in 
the  window  of  a hotel.  “Observe  Goldsmith,”  said  Burke  to 
O’Moore,  “and  mark  what  passes  between  us  at  Sir  Joshua’s.” 
They  passed  on  and  reached  there  before  him.  Burke  received 
Goldsmith  with  affected  reserve  and  coldness  ; being  pressed  to 
explain  the  reason,  “ Really,”  said  he,  “ I am  ashamed  to  keep 
company  with  a person  who  could  act  as  you  have  just  done  in 
the  Square.”  Goldsmith  protested  he  was  ignorant  of  what  was 
meant.  “ Why,”  said  Burke,  “ did  you  not  exclaim,  as  you  were 
looking  up  at  those  women,  what  stupid  beasts  the  crowd  must 
be  for  staring  with  such  admiration  at  those  painted  Jezeheh, 
while  a man  of  your  talents  passed  by  unnoticed  ? ” “ Surely, 

surely,  my  dear  friend,”  cried  Goldsmith,  with  alarm,  “ surely  I 
did  not  say  so*?”  “Nay,”  replied  Burke,  “if  you  had  not  said 
so,  how  should  I have  known  it?”  “That’s  true,”  answered 
Goldsmith,  “ I am  very  sorry  — it  was  very  foolish  : / do  recollect 
that  something  of  the  hind  passed  through  my  mind,  hut  I did 
not  think  I had  uttered  it^ 

It  is  proper  to  observe  that  these  jokes  were  played  off*  by 
Burke  before  he  had  attained  the  full  eminence  of  his  social 
position,  and  that  he  may  have  felt  privileged  to  take  liberties 
with  Goldsmith  as  his  countryman  and  college  associate.  It  is 
evident,  however,  that  the  peculiarities  of  the  latter,  and  his  guile- 
less simplicity,  made  him  a butt  for  the  broad  waggery  of  some  of 
his  associates ; while  others  more  polished,  though  equally  perfid- 
ious, were  on  the  watch  to  give  currency  to  his  bulls  and  blunders. 

The  Stratford  jubilee,  in  honor  of  Shakspeare,  where  Boswell 
had  made  a fool  of  himself,  was  still  in  every  one’s  mind.  It  was 
sportively  suggested  that  a fete  should  be  held  at  Litchfield  in 
honor  of  Johnson  and  Garrick,  and  that  the  Beaux*  Stratagem 


218 


OLIVER  GOLDSMiriL 


should  be  played  by  the  members  of  the  Literary  Club.  “ Then/^ 
exclaimed  Goldsmith,  ‘‘I  shall  certainly  play  Scrub.  I should  like 
of  all  things  to  try  my  hand  at  that  character.’^  The  unwary 
speech,  which  any  one  else  might  have  made  without  comment, 
has  been  thought  worthy  of  record  as  whimsically  characteristic. 
Beauclerc  was  extremely  apt  to  circulate  anecdotes  at  his  expense, 
founded  perhaps  on  some  trivial  incident,  but  dressed  up  with  the 
embellishments  of  his  sarcastic  brain.  One  relates  to  a venerable 
dish  of  peas,  served  up  at  Sir  Joshua’s  table,  which  should  have 
been  green,  but  were  any  other  color.  A wag  suggested  to  Gold- 
smith in  a whisper,  that  they  should  be  sent  to  Hammersmith,  as 
that  was  the  way  to  turn-em-green  (Turnham  Green).  Goldsmith, 
delighted  with  the  pun,  endeavored  to  repeat  it  at  Burke’s  table, 
but  missed  the  point.  “ That  is  the  way  to  make  ’em  green,” 
said  he.  Nobody  laughed.  He  perceived  he  was  at  fault.  ‘‘I 
mean  that  is  the  road  to  turn  ’em  green.”  A dead  pause  and  a 
stare;  — ‘‘whereupon,”  adds  Beauclerc,  “he  started  up  discon- 
certed and  abruptly  left  the  table.”  This  is  evidently  one  of 
Beauclerc’s  caricatures. 

On  another  occasion  the  poet  and  Beauclerc  were  seated  at  the 
theatre  next  to  Lord  Shelburne,  the  minister,  whom  political 
writers  thought  proper  to  nickname  Maiagrida.  “Do  you  know,” 
said  Goldsmith  to  his  lordship,  in  the  course  of  conversation,  “ that 
I never  could  conceive  why  they  call  you  Maiagrida,  for  Maiagrida 
was  a very  good  sort  of  man.”  This  was  too  good  a trip  of  the 
tongue  for  Beauclerc  to  let  pass  : he  serves  it  up  in  his  next  letter 
to  Lord  Charlemont,  as  a specimen  of  a mode  of  turning  a thought 
the  wrong  way,  peculiar  to  the  poet ; he  makes  merry  over  it  with 
his  witty  and  sarcastic  compeer,  Horace  Walpole,  who  pronounces 
it  “a  picture  of  Goldsmith’s  whole  life.”  Dr.  Johnson  alone,  when 
he  hears  it  bandied  about  as  Goldsmith’s  last  blunder,  growls  forth 
a friendly  defence  : “ Sir,”  said  he,  “ it  was  a mere  blunder  in 
emphasis.  He  meant  to  say,  I wonder  they  should  use  Maiagrida 
as  a term  of  reproach.”  Poor  Goldsmith  ! On  such  points  he 
was  ever  doomed  to  be  misinterpreted.  Rogers,  the  poet,  meeting 


GOLDSMITH  PliOVED  TO  BE  A FOOL, 


219 


in  times  long  subsequent  with  a survivor  from  those  days,  asked 
him  what  Goldsmith  really  was  in  conversation.  The  old  conven- 
tional character  was  too  deeply  stamped  in  the  memory  of  the  vet- 
eran to  be  effaced.  “ Sir,’’  replied  the  old  wiseacre,  ‘‘  he  was  a fool. 
The  right  word  never  came  to  him.  If  you  gave  him  back  a bad 
shilling,  he’d  say.  Why,  it’s  as  good  a shilling  as  ever  was  horn. 
You  know  he  ought  to  have  said  coined.  Coined^  sir,  never 
entered  his  head.  He  was  a fool.,  sir.^^ 

We  have  so  many  anecdotes  in  which  Goldsmith’s  simplicity  is 
played  upon,  that  it  is  quite  a treat  to  meet  with  one  in  which  he  is 
represented  playing  upon  the  simplicity  of  others,  especially  when 
the  victim  of  his  joke  is  the  ‘‘  Great  Cham  ” himself,  whom  all 
others  are  disposed  to  hold  so  much  in  awe.  Goldsmith  and  John- 
son were  supping  cosily  together  at  a tavern  in  Dean  Street,  Soho, 
kept  by  Jack  Roberts,  a singer  at  Drury  Lane,  and  a prot^g^  mf 
Garrick’s.  Johnson  delighted  in  these  gastronomical  tete~d-tetes, 
and  was  expatiating  in  high  good-humor  on  a dish  of  rumps  and 
kidneys,  the  veins  of  his  forehead  swelling  with  the  ardor  of  masti- 
cation. “These,”  said  he,  “are  pretty  little  things;  but  a man 
must  eat  a great  many  of  them  before  he  is  filled.” 

“ Aye ; but  how  many  of  them,”  asked  Goldsmith,  with  affected 
simplicity,  “ would  reach  to  the  moon  ? ” “To  the  moon  ! Ah, 
sir,  that,  I fear,  exceeds  your  calculation.”  “ Not  at  all,  sir ; I 
think  I could  tell.”  “Pray,  then,  sir,  let  us  hear.”  “Why,  sir, 
one,  if  it  were  long  enough  I Johnson  growled  for  a time  at 
finding  himself  caught  in  such  a trite  schoolboy  trap.  “ Well, 
sir,”  cried  he  at  length,  “ I have  deserved  it.  I should  not  have 
provoked  so  foolish  an  answer  by  so  foolish  a question.” 

Among  the  many  incidents  related  as  illustrative  of  Goldsmith’s 
vanity  and  envy  is  one  which  occurred  one  evening  when  he  was  in 
a drawing-room  with  a party  of  ladies,  and  a ballad-singer  under 
the  window  struck  up  his  favorite  song  of  Sally  Salisbury. 
“How  miserably  this  woman  sings!”  exclaimed  he.  “Pray, 
Doctor,”  said  the  lady  of  the  house,  “ could  you  do  it  better  ? ” 
“ Yes,  madam,  and  the  company  shall  be  judges.”  The  com^ 


220 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


pany,  of  course,  prepared  to  be  entertained  by  an  absurdity ; but 
their  smiles  were  wellnigh  turned  to  tears,  for  he  acquitted  himself 
with  a skill  and  pathos  that  drew  universal  applause.  He  had,  in 
fact,  a delicate  ear  for  music,  which  had  been  jarred  by  the  false 
notes  of  the  ballad-singer  ; and  there  were  certain  pathetic  ballads, 
associated  with  recollections  of  his  childhood,  which  were  sure  to 
touch  the  springs  of  his  heart.  We  have  another  story  of  him, 
connected  with  ballad-singing,  which  is  still  more  characteristic. 
He  was  one  evening  at  the  house  of  Sir  William  Chambers,  in 
Berners  Street,  seated  at  a whist-table  with  Sir  William,  Lady 
Chambers,  and  Baretti,  when  all  at  once  he  threw  down  his  cards, 
hurried  out  of  the  room  and  into  the  street.  He  returned  in  an 
instant,  resumed  his  seat,  and  the  game  went  on.  Sir  William, 
after  a little  hesitation,  ventured  to  ask  the  cause  of  his  retreat, 
fearing  he  had  been  overcome  by  the  heat  of  the  room.  ‘‘Not  at 
all,’’  replied  Goldsmith  ; “but  in  truth  I could  not  bear  to  hear 
that  unfortunate  woman  in  the  street,  half  singing,  half  sobbing, 
for  such  tones  could  only  arise  from  the  extremity  of  distress : her 
voice  grated  painfully  on  my  ear  and  jarred  my  frame,  so  that  I 
could  not  rest  until  I had  sent  her  away.”  It  was  in  fact  a poor 
ballad-singer  whose  cracked  voice  had  been  heard  by  others  of  the 
party,  but  without  having  the  same  effect  on  their  sensibilities. 
It  was  the  reality  of  his  fictitious  scene  in  the  story  of  the  “ Man 
in  Black  ; ” wherein  he  describes  a woman  in  rags,  with  one  child  in 
her  arms  and  another  on  her  back,  attempting  to  sing  ballads,  but 
with  such  a mournful  voice  that  it  was  difficult  to  determine 
whether  she  was  singing  or  crying.  “A  wretch,”  he  adds, “who, 
in  the  deepest  distress,  still  aimed  at  good-humor,  was  an  object  my 
friend  was  by  no  means  capable  of  withstanding.”  The  “Man  in 
Black  ” gave  the  poor  woman  all  that  he  had  — a bundle  of 
matches.  Goldsmith,  it  is  probable,  sent  his  ballad-singer  away 
rejoicing,  with  all  the  money  in  his  pocket. 

Ranelagh  was  at  that  time  greatly  in  vogue  as  a place  of  public 
entertainment.  It  was  situated  near  Chelsea ; the  principal  room 
was  a Rotunda  of  great  dimensions,  with  an  orchestra  in  the 


THE  POET  AT  BANELAGII. 


221 


centre,  and  tiers  of  boxes  all  round.  It  was  a place  to  which 
Johnson  resorted  occasionally.  “I  am  a great  friend  to  public 
amusements,”  said  he,  “ for  they  keep  people  from  vice.”^  Gold- 
smith was  equally  a friend  to  them,  though  perhaps  not  altogether 
on  such  moral  grounds.  He  was  particularly  fond  of  masquerades, 
which  were  then  exceedingly  popular,  and  got  up  at  Ranelagh  with 
great  expense  and  magnificence.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  had 
likewise  a taste  for  such  amusements,  was  sometimes  his  compan- 
ion ; at  other  times  he  went  alone ; his  peculiarities  of  person 
and  manner  would  soon  betray  him,  whatever  might  be  his  dis- 
guise, and  he  would  be  singled  out  by  wags,  acquainted  with  his 
foibles,  and  more  successful  than  himself  in  maintaining  their 
incognito,  as  a capital  subject  to  be  played  upon.  Some,  pretend- 
ing not  to  know  him,  would  decry  his  writings,  and  praise  those  of 
his  contemporaries  ; others  would  laud  his  verses  to  the  skies,  but 
purposely  misquote  and  burlesque  them  ; others  would  annoy  him 
with  parodies ; while  one  young  lady,  whom  he  was  teasing,  as  he 
supposed,  with  great  success  and  infinite  humor,  silenced  his  rather 
boisterous  laughter  by  quoting  his  own  line  about  “ the  loud  laugh 
that  speaks  the  vacant  mind.”  On  one  occasion  he  was  absolutely 
driven  out  of  the  house  by  the  persevering  jokes  of  a wag,  whose 
complete  disguise  gave  him  no  means  of  retaliation. 

His  name  appearing  in  the  newspapers  among  the  distinguished 
persons  present  at  one  of  these  amusements,  his  old  enemy, 
Kenrick,  immediately  addressed  to  him  a copy  of  anonymous 
verses,  to  the  following  purport. 


1 “ Alas,  sir  ! ” said  Johnson,  speaking,  when  in  another  mood,  of  grand 
houses,  fine  gardens,  and  splendid  places  of  public  amusement  ; “ alas, 
sir  ! these  are  only  struggles  for  happiness.  When  I first  entered  Ranelagh 
it  gave  an  expansion  and  gay  sensation  to  my  mind,  such  as  I never  experi- 
enced anywhere  else.  But,  as  Xerxes  wept  when  he  reviewed  his  immense 
army,  and  considered  that  not  one  of  that  great  multitude  would  be  alive 
a hundred  years  afterwards,  so  it  went  to  my  heart  to  consider  that  there 
was  not  one  in  all  that  brilliant  circle  that  was  not  afraid  to  go  home  and 
think.” 


222 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH; 

ON  SEEING  HIS  NAME  IN  THE  LIST  OF  MUMMERS  AT  THE  LATE 
MASQUERADE. 

“ How  widely  different,  Goldsmith,  are  the  ways 
Of  Doctors  now,  and  those  of  ancient  days  ! 

Theirs  taught  the  truth  in  academic  shades, 

Ours  in  lewd  hops  and  midnight  masquerades. 

So  changed  the  times  ! say,  philosophic  sage, 

Whose  genius  suits  so  well  this  tasteful  age, 

Is  the  Pantheon,  late  a sink  obscene. 

Become  the  fountain  of  chaste  Hippocrene  ? 

Or  do  thy  moral  numbers  quaintly  flow, 

Inspired  by  th’  Aganippe  of  Soho  ? 

Do  wisdom’s  sons  gorge  cates  and  vermicelli, 

Like  beastly  Bickerstaffe  or  bothering  Kelly  ? 

Or  art  thou  tired  of  th’  undeserved  applause. 

Bestowed  on  bards  affecting  Virtue’s  cause  ? 

Is  this  the  good  that  makes  the  humble  vain, 

The  good  philosophy  should  not  disdain  ? 

If  so,  let  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 

A modern  sage  is  still  much  less  than  man.” 

Goldsmith  was  keenly  sensitive  to  attacks  of  the  kind,  and 
meeting  Kenrick  at  the  Chapter  Coffee-House,  called  him  to  sharp 
account  for  taking  such  liberty  with  his  name,  and  calling  his 
morals  in  question,  merely  on  account  of  his  being  seen  at  a place 
of  general  resort  and  amusement.  Kenrick  shuffled  and  sneaked, 
protesting  that  he  meant  nothing  derogatory  to  his  private  charac- 
ter. Goldsmith  let  him  know,  however,  that  he  was  aware  of  his 
having  more  than  once  indulged  in  attacks  of  this  dastard  kind,  and 
intimated  that  another  such  outrage  would  be  followed  by  personal 
chastisement. 

Kenrick,  having  played  the  craven  in  his  presence,  avenged  him- 
self as  soon  as  he  was  gone  by  complaining  of  his  having  made  a 
wanton  attack  upon  him,  and  by  making  coarse  comments  upon 
his  writings,  conversation,  and  person. 


INVITATION  TO  CIIEI8TMAS, 


223 


The  scurrilous  satire  of  Kenrick,  however  unmerited,  may  have 
checked  Goldsmith’s  taste  for  masquerades.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
calling  on  the  poet  one  morning,  found  him  walking  about  his 
room  in  somewhat  of  a reverie,  kicking  a bundle  of  clothes  before 
him  like  a football.  It  proved  to  be  an  expensive  masquerade 
dress,  which  he  said  he  had  been  fool  enough  to  purchase,  and  as 
there  was  no  other  way  of  getting  the  worth  of  his  money,  he  was 
trying  to  take  it  out  in  exercise. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Feom  the  feverish  dissipations  of  town.  Goldsmith  is  summoned 
away  to  partake  of  the  genial  dissipations  of  the  country.  In  the 
month  of  December,  a letter  from  Mrs.  Bunbury  invites  him  down 
to  Barton,  to  pass  the  Christmas  holidays.  The  letter  is  written 
in  the  usual  playful  vein  which  marks  his  intercourse  with  this 
charming  family.  He  is  to  come  in  his  “smart  spring-velvet 
coat,’^  to  bring  a new  wig  to  dance  with  the  haymakers  in,  and 
above  all  to  follow  the  advice  of  herself  and  her  sister,  (the  Jes- 
samy  Bride,)  in  playing  loo.  This  letter,  which  plays  so  archly, 
yet  kindly,  with  some  of  poor  Goldsmith’s  peculiarities,  and  be- 
speaks such  real  ladylike  regard  for  him,  requires  a word  or  two  of 
annotation.  The  spring- velvet  suit  alluded  to  appears  to  have  been 
a gallant  adornment,  (somewhat  in  the  style  of  the  famous  -blooin- 
colored  coat,)  in  which  Goldsmith  had  figured  in  the  preceding 
month  of  May  — the  season  of  blossoms  : for,  on  the  21st  of  that 
month,  we  find  the  following  entry  in  the  chronicle  of  Mr.  William 
Filby,  tailor:  To  your  blue  velvet  suit^  <£21  10s.  9cZ.  Also, 
about  the  same  time,  a suit  of  livery  and  a crimson  collar  for  the 
serving-man.  Again  we  hold  the  Jessamy  Bride  responsible  for 
this  gorgeous  splendor  of  wardrobe. 

The  new  wdg  no  doubt  is  a bag-wig  and  solitaire,  still  highly  the 
mode,  and  in  which  Goldsmith  is  represented  as  figuring  when  in 
full  dress  equipped  with  his  sword. 


224 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


As  to  the  dancing  with  the  haymakers,  we  presume  it  alludes  ta 
some  gambol  of  the  poet,  in  the  course  of  his  former  visit  to 
Barton  ; when  he  ranged  the  fields  and  lawns  a chartered  libertine, 
and  tumbled  into  the  fish-ponds. 

As  to  the  suggestions  about  loo,  they  are  in  sportive  allusion  to 
the  Doctor’s  mode  of  playing  that  game  in  their  merry  evening 
parties ; affecting  the  desperate  gambler  and  easy  dupe ; running 
counter  to  all  rule  ; making  extravagant  ventures  ; reproaching  all 
others  with  cowardice ; dashing  at  all  hazards  at  the  pool,  and 
getting  himself  completely  loo’d,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the 
company.  The  drift  of  the  fair  sisters’  advice  was  most  probably 
to  tempt  him  on,  and  then  leave  him  in  the  lurch. 

With  these  comments  we  subjoin  Goldsmith’s  reply  to  Mrs. 
Bunbury,  a fine  piece  of  off-hand,  humorous  writing,  which  has 
but  in  late  years  been  given  to  the  public,  and  which  throws  a 
familiar  light  on  the  social  circle  at  Barton. 

“ Madam,  — I read  your  letter  with  all  that  allowance  which  critical 
candor  could  require,  but  after  all  find  so  much  to  object  to,  and  so 
much  to  raise  my  indignation,  that  I cannot  help  giving  it  a serious 
answer.  — I am  not  so  ignorant,  madam,  as  not  to  see  there  are  many 
sarcasms  contained  in  it,  and  solecisms  also.  (Solecism  is  a word 
that  comes  from  the  town  of  Soleis  in  Attica,  among  the  Greeks,  built 
by  Solon,  and  applied  as  we  use  the  word  Kidderminster  for  curtains 
from  a town  also  of  that  name  but  this  is  learning  you  have  no 
taste  for  !)  — I say,  madam,  that  there  are  many  sarcasms  in  it,  and 
solecisms  also.  But  not  to  seem  an  ill-natured  critic.  I’ll  take  leave  to 
quote  your  own  Avords,  and  give  you  my  remarks  upon  them  as  they 
occur.  You  begin  as  follows  : — 

“ ‘I  hope,  my  good  Doctor,  you  soon  will  he  here. 

And  your  spring- velvet  coat  very  smart  will  appear, 

To  open  our  ball  the  first  day  of  the  year.’ 

“ Pray,  madam,  where  did  you  ever  find  the  epithet  ‘good,’  applied 
to  the  title  of  doctor  ? Had  you  called  me  ‘ learned  doctor,’  or  ‘ grave 
doctor,’  or  ‘ noble  doctor,’  it  might  be  allowable,  because  they  belong 
to  the  profession.  But,  not  to  cavil  at  trifles,  you  talk  of  my  ‘spring- 
velvet  coat,’  and  advise  me  to  wear  it  the  first  day  in  the  year,  that  is, 
in  the  middle  of  winter! — a spring-velvet  coat  in  the  middle  of 


LETTER  TO  MRS.  BUN  BURY. 


225 


winter  ! ! ! That  would  be  a solecism  indeed  ! and  yet  to  increase  the 
inconsistency,  in  another  part  of  your  letter  you  call  me  a beau.  Now, 
on  one  side  or  other,  you  must  be  wrong.  If  I am  a beau,  I can 
never  think  of  wearing  a spring-velvet  in  winter  ; and  if  I am  not  a 
beau,  why  then,  that  explains  itself.  But  let  me  go  on  to  your  two 
next  strange  lines  : — 

“ ‘ And  bring  with  you  a wig,  that  is  modish  and  gay, 

To  dance  with  the  girls  that  are  makers  of  hay.’ 

“The  absurdity  of  making  hay  at  Christmas  you  yourself  seem  sen- 
sible of  : you  say  your  sister  will  laugh  ; and  so  indeed  she  well  may  ! 
The  Latins  have  an  expression  for  a contemptuous  kind  of  laughter, 
‘ naso  contemnere  adunco  ; ’ that  is,  to  laugh  with  a crooked  nose. 
She  may  laugh  at  you  in  the  manner  of  the  ancients  if  she  thinks  fit. 
But  now  I come  to  the  most  extraordinary  of  all  extraordinary  propo- 
sitions, — which  is,  to  take  your  and  your  sister’s  advice  in  playing  at 
loo.  The  presumption  of  the  offer  raises  my  indignation  beyond  the 
bounds  of  prose  ; it  inspires  me  at  once  with  verse  and  resentment.  1 
take  advice  ! and  from  whom  ? You  shall  hear. 

“ First,  let  me  suppose,  what  may  shortly  be  true. 

The  company  set,  and  the  word  to  be  Loo  ; 

All  smirking,  and  pleasant,  and  big  with  adventure. 

And  ogling  the  stake  which  is  fix’d  in  the  centre. 

Round  and  round  go  the  cards,  while  I inwardly  damn 
At  never  once  finding  a visit  from  Pam. 

I lay  down  my  stake,  apparently  cool. 

While  the  harpies  about  me  all  pocket  the  pool. 

I fret  in  my  gizzard,  yet,  cautious  and  sly, 

I wish  all  my  friends  may  be  bolder  than  I : 

Yet  still  they  sit  snug,  not  a creature  will  aim 
By  losing  their  money  to  venture  at  fame. 

’Tis  in  vain  that  at  niggardly  caution  I scold, 

’Tis  in  vain  that  I flatter  the  brave  and  the  bold ; 

All  play  their  own  way,  and  they  think  me  an  ass,  . , . 

‘ What  does  Mrs.  Bunbury  ? ’ . . ‘ I,  Sir  ? I pass.’ 

‘ Pray  what  does  Miss  Horneck  ? take  courage,  come  do.’ 

‘ Who,  I? — let  me  see,  sir,  why  I must  pass  too.’ 

Mr.  Bunbury  frets,  and  I fret  like  the  devil. 

To  see  them  so  cowardly,  lucky,  and  civil. 

Yet  still  I sit  snug,  and  continue  to  sigh  on, 


226 


OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH. 


Till,  made  by  my  losses  as  bold  as  a lion, 

I venture  at  all,  while  my  avarice  regards 

The  whole  pool  as  my  own.  . . ‘ Come,  give  me  five  cards.’ 

‘ Well  done  ! ’ cry  the  ladies  ; ‘ ah.  Doctor,  that’s  good  ! 

The  pool’s  very  rich,  . . ah  ! the  Doctor  is  loo’d  ! ’ 

Thus  foil’d  in  my  courage,  on  all  sides  perplext, 

I ask  for  advice  from  the  lady  that’s  next : 

‘ Pray,  ma’am,  be  so  good  as  to  give  your  advice  ; 

Don’t  you  think  the  best  way  is  to  venture  for’t  twice  ? ’ 

‘ I advise,’  cries  the  lady,  ‘ to  try  it,  I own.  . . 

Ah  ! the  Doctor  is  loo’d  ! Come,  Doctor,  put  down.’ 

Thus,  playing,  and  playing,  I still  grow  more  eager. 

And  so  bold,  and  so  bold,  I’m  at  last  a bold  beggar. 

Now,  ladies,  I ask,  if  law-matters  you’re  skill’d  in, 

Whether  crimes  such  as  yours  should  not  come  before  Fielding: 
For  giving  advice  that  is  not  worth  a straw. 

May  well  be  call’d  picking  of  pockets  in  law  ; 

And  picking  of  pockets,  with  which  I now  charge  ye, 

Is,  by  quinto  Elizabeth,  Death  without  Clergy. 

What  justice,  when  both  to  the  (31d  Bailey  brought ! 

By  the  gods.  I’ll  enjoy  it,  tho’  ’tis  but  in  thought ! 

Both  are  placed  at  the  bar,  with  all  proper  decorum, 

With  bunches  of  fennel,  and  nosegays  before  ’em  ; 

Both  cover  their  faces  with  mobs  and  all  that. 

But  the  judge  bids  them,  angrily,  take  off  their  hat. 

When  uncover’d  a buzz  of  inquiry  runs  round, 

‘ Pray  what  are  their  crimes  ? ’ . . ‘ They’ve  been  pilfering  found.’ 
‘ But,  pray,  who  have  they  pilfer’d  ? ’ . . ‘ A doctor,  I hear.’ 

‘ What,  yon  solemn-faced,  odd-looking  man  that  stands  near  9 ’ 

‘ The  same.’  . . ‘ What  a pity  ! how  does  it  surprise  one, 

Tido  handsomer  culprits  I never  set  eyes  on  ! ’ 

Then  their  friends  all  come  round  me  with  cringing  and  leering. 
To  melt  me  to  pity,  and  soften  my  swearing. 

First  Sir  Charles  advances  with  phrases  well-strung, 

‘ Consider,  dear  Doctor,  the  girls  are  but  young.’ 

‘ The  younger  the  worse,’  I return  him  again, 

‘ It  shows  that  their  habits  are  all  dyed  in  grain.’ 

‘ But  then  they’re  so  handsome,  one’s  bosom  it  grieves.’ 

‘ What  signifies  handsome,  when  people  are  thieves  ? ’ 

‘ But  where  is  your  justice  ? their  cases  are  hard.’ 

♦ What  signifies  justice?  I want  the  reward, 


THEATRICAL  BELAYS, 


227 


“ ‘ There’s  the  parish  of  Edmonton  offers  forty  pounds  ; tliere’s  the 
parish  of  St.  Leonard  Shoreditch  offers  forty  pounds ; there’s  the 
parish  of  Tyburn,  from  the  Hog-in-the-pound  to  St.  Giles’s  watch- 
house,  offers  forty  pounds,  — I shall  have  all  that  if  I convict 
them  ! ’ — 

“ ‘ But  consider  their  case,  . . it  may  yet  be  your  own  ! 

And  see  how  they  kneel  ! Is  your  heart  made  of  stone  ? ’ 

This  moves  : . . so  at  last  I agree  to  relent. 

For  ten  pounds  in  hand,  and  ten  pounds  to  be  spent.’ 

‘‘I  challenge  you  all  to  answer  this:  I tell  you,  you  cannot.  It 
cuts  deep.  But  now  for  the  rest  of  the  letter : and  next  — but  I want 
room  — so  I believe  I shall  battle  the  rest  out  at  Barton  some  day  next 
week.  — I don’t  value  you  all ! O.  G.” 

We  regret  that  we  have  no  record  of  this  Christmas  visit  to 
Barton ; that  the  poet  had  no  Boswell  to  follow  at  his  heels,  and 
take  note  of  all  his  sayings  and  doings.  We  can  only  picture 
him  in  our  minds,  casting  off  all  care ; enacting  the  lord  of  misrule  ; 
presiding  at  the  Christmas  revels ; providing  all  kinds  of  merri- 
ment ; keeping  the  card-table  in  an  uproar,  and  finally  opening 
the  ball  on  the  first  day  of  the  year  in  his  spring-velvet  suit,  with 
the  Jessamy  Bride  for  a partner. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

The  gay  life  depicted  in  the  two  last  chapters,  while  it  kept 
Goldsmith  in  a state  of  continual  excitement,  aggravated  the 
malady  which  was  impairing  his  constitution ; yet  his  increasing 
perplexities  in  money-matters  drove  him  to  the  dissipation  of 
society  as  a relief  from  solitary  care.  The  delays  of  the  theatre 
added  to  those  perplexities.  He  had  long  since  finished  his  new 
comedy,  yet  the  year  1772  passed  away  without  his  being  able  to 
get  it  on  the  stage.  No  one,  uninitiated  in  the  interior  of  a theatre, 
that  little  world  of  traps  and  trickery,  can  have  any  idea  of  the 
obstacles  and  perplexities  multiplied  in  the  way  of  the  most 
eminent  and  successful  author  by  the  mismanagement  of  managers, 


228 


OLIVEJl  GOLDSMITH, 


the  jealousies  and  intrigues  of  rival  authors,  and  the  fantastic 
and  impertinent  caprices  of  actors.  A long  and  baffling  negotia- 
tion was  carried  on  between  Goldsmith  and  Colman,  the  manager 
of  Covent  Garden  ; who  retained  the  play  in  his  hands  until  the 
middle  of  January,  (1773,)  without  coming  to  a decision.  The 
theatrical  season  was  rapidly  passing  away,  and  Goldsmith’s 
pecuniary  difficulties  were  augmenting  and  pressing  on  him.  We 
may  judge  of  his  anxiety  by  the  following  letter  : — 

“ To  George  Colman^  Esq. 

“ Dear  Sir,  — 

“ I entreat  you’ll  relieve  me  from  that  state  of  suspense  in  which  I 
have  been  kept  for  a long  time.  Whatever  objections  you  have  made 
or  shall  make  to  my  play,  I will  endeavor  to  remove  and  not  argue 
about  them.  To  bring  in  any  new  judges  either  of  its  merits  or  faults 
I can  never  submit  to.  Upon  a former  occasion,  when  my  other  play 
was  before  Mr.  Garrick,  he  offered  to  bring  me  before  Mr.  Whitehead’s 
tribunal,  but  I refused  the  proposal  with  indignation  : I hope  I shall 
not  experience  as  harsh  treatment  from  you  as  from  him.  I have,  as 
you  know,  a large  sum  of  money  to  make  up  shortly  ; by  accepting 
my  play,  I can  readily  satisfy  my  creditor  that  way  ; at  any  rate,  I 
must  look  about  to  some  certainty  to  be  prepared.  For  God’s  sake 
take  the  play,  and  let  us  make  the  best  of  it,  and  let  me  have  the  same 
measure,  at  least,  which  you  have  given  as  bad  plays  as  mine. 

“ I am,  your  friend  and  servant, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

Colman  returned  the  manuscript  with  the  blank  sides  of  the 
leaves  scored  with  disparaging  comments,  and  suggested  alterations, 
but  with  the  intimation  that  the  faith  of  the  theatre  should  be 
kept,  and  the  play  acted  notwithstanding.  Goldsmith  submitted 
the  criticisms  to  some  of  his  friends,  who  pronounced  them  trivial, 
unfair,  and  contemptible,  and  intimated  that  Colman,  being  a 
dramatic  writer  himself,  might  be  actuated  by  jealousy.  The  play 
was  then  sent,  with  Colman’s  comments  written  on  it,  to  Garrick ; 
but  he  had  scarce  sent  it  when  Johnson  interfered,  represented  the 
evil  that  might  result  from  an  apparent  rejection  of  it  by  Covent 
Garden,  and  undertook  to  go  forthwith  to  Colman,  and  have  a 


NEGOTIATIONS  WITH  COLMAN, 


229 


talk  with  him  on  tlie  subject.  Goldsmith,  therefore,  penned  the 
following  note  to  Garrick  : — 

“ Dear  Sir,  — 

“ I ask  many  pardons  for  the  trouble  I gave  you  yesterday.  Upon 
more  mature  deliberation,  and  the  advice  of  a sensible  friend,  I began 
to  think  it  indelicate  in  me  to  throw  upon  you  the  odium  of  confirming 
Mr.  Colman’s  sentence.  I therefore  request  you  will  send  my  play 
back  by  my  servant ; for  having  been  assured  of  having  it  acted  at  the 
other  house,  though  I confess  yours  in  every  respect  more  to  my  wish, 
yet  it  would  be  folly  in  me  to  forego  an  advantage  which  lies  in  my 
power  of  appealing  from  Mr.  Colman’s  opinion  to  the  judgment  of 
the  town.  I entreat,  if  not  too  late,  you  will  keep  this  affair  a secret 
for  some  time. 

“ I am,  dear  sir,  your  very  humble  servant, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

The  negotiation  of  Johnson  with  the  manager  of  Covent  Gar- 
den was  effective.  Colman,”  he  says,  “was  prevailed  on  at  last, 
by  much  solicitation,  nay,  a kind  of  force,”  to  bring  forward  the 
comedy.  Still  the  manager  was  ungenerous,  of  at  least  indiscreet 
enough  to  express  his  opinion  that  it  would  not  reach  a second 
representation.  The  plot,  he  said,  was  bad,  and  the  interest  not 
sustained;  “it  dwindled,  and  dwindled,  and  at  last  went  out  like 
the  snuff  of  a candle.”  The  effect  of  his  croaking  was  soon  appar- 
ent within  the  walls  of  the  theatre.  Two  of  the  most  popular 
actors,  Woodward  and  Gentleman  Smith,  to  whom  the  parts  of 
Tony  Lumpkin  and  Young  Marlow  were  assigned,  refused  to  act 
them ; one  of  them  alleging,  in  excuse,  the  evil  predictions  of  the 
manager.  Goldsmith  was  advised  to  postpone  the  performance  of 
his  play  until  he  could  get  these  important  parts  well  supplied. 
“ No,”  said  he,  “ I w'ould  sooner  that  my  play  were  damned  by 
bad  players  than  merely  saved  by  good  acting.” 

Quick  was  substituted  for  Woodward  in  Tony  Lumpkin,  and 
Lee  Lewis,  the  harlequin  of  the  theatre,  for  Gentleman  Smith  in 
Young  Marlow ; and  both  did  justice  to  their  parts. 

Great  interest  was  taken  by  Goldsmith’s  friends  in  the  success 
of  his  piece.  The  rehearsals  were  attended  by  Johnson,  Cradock, 


230 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITfl, 


Murph}r,  Reynolds  and  his  sister,  and  the  whole  Honieck  connec- 
tion, including,  of  course,  the  Jessamy  Bride,  whose  presence  may 
have  contributed  to  flutter  the  anxious  heart  of  the  author.  The 
rehearsals  went  off  with  great  applause ; but  that  Colman  attributed 
to  the  partiality  of  friends.  He  continued  to  croak,  and  refused 
to  risk  any  expense  in  new  scenery  or  dresses  on  a play  which  he 
was  sure  would  prove  a failure. 

The  time  was  at  hand  for  the  first  representation,  and  as  yet 
the  comedy  was  without  a title.  ‘‘  We  are  all  in  labor  for  a name 
for  Goldy’s  play,’^  said  Johnson,  who,  as  usual,  took  a kind  of 
fatherly  protecting  interest  in  poor  Goldsmith’s  affairs.  “ The 
Old  House  a New  Inn”  was  thought  of  for  a time,  but  still  did 
not  please.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  proposed  “The  Belle’s  Strata- 
gem,” an  elegant  title,  but  not  considered  applicable,  the  perplexi- 
ties of  the  comedy  being  produced  by  the  mistakes  of  the  hero,  not 
the  stratagem  of  the  heroine.  The  name  was  afterwards  adopted 
by  Mrs.  Cowley  for  one  of  her  comedies.  The  Mistakes  of  a 
Night  was  the  title  at  length  fixed  upon,  to  which  Goldsmith  pre- 
fixed the  words.  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 

The  evil  bodings  of  Colman  still  continued : they  were  even 
communicated  in  the  box-office  to  the  servant  of  the  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  who  was  sent  to  engage  a box.  Never  did  the  play  of 
a popular  writer  struggle  into  existence  through  more  difficulties. 

In  the  meantime  Foote’s  “ Primitive  Puppet-Show,”  entitled 
the  Handsome  Housemaid.,  or  Piety  in  Pattens^  had  been  brought 
out  at  the  Haymarket  on  the  1 5th  of  February.  All  the  world, 
fashionable  and  unfashionable,  had  crowded  to  the  theatre.  The 
street  was  thronged  with  equipages,  — the  doors  were  stormed  by 
the  mob.  The  burlesque  was  completely  successful,  and  sentimen- 
tal comedy  received  its  quietus.  Even  Garrick,  who  had  recently 
befriended  it,  now  gave  it  a kick,  as  he  saw  it  going  down-hill,  and 
sent  Goldsmith  a humorous  prologue  to.  help  his  comedy  of  the 
opposite  school.  Garrick  and  Goldsmith,  however,  were  now  on 
very  cordial  terms,  to  which  the  social  meetings  in  the  circle  of 
the  Hornecks  and  Bunburys  may  have  contributed. 


SUE  STOOPS  TO  CONqUEll. 


231 


On  the  15th  of  March  the  new  comedy  was  to  be  performed. 
Those  who  had  stood  up  for  its  merits,  and  been  irritated  and 
disgusted  by  the  treatment  it  had  received  from  the  manager,  deter- 
mined to  muster  their  forces,  and  aid  in  giving  it  a good  launch 
upon  the  town.  The  particulars  of  this  confederation,  and  of  its 
triumphant  success,  are  amusingly  told  by  Cumberland  in  his 
memoirs. 

“ We  were  not  over-sanguine  of  success,  but  perfectly  determined  to 
struggle  hard  for  our  author.  We  accordingly  assembled  our  strength 
at  the  Shakspeare  Tavern,  in  a considerable  body,  for  an  early 
dinner,  where  Samuel  Johnson  took  the  chair  at  the  head  of  a long 
table,  and  was  the  life  and  soul  of  the  corps  ; the  poet  took  post 
silently  by  his  side,  with  the  Burkes,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Fitzher- 
bert,  Caleb  Whitefoord,  and  a phalanx  of  North  British,  predetermined 
applauders,  under  the  banner  of  Major  Mills, — all  good  men  and 
true.  Our  illustrious  president  was  in  inimitable  glee  ; and  poor 
Goldsmith  that  day  took  all  his  raillery  as  patiently  and  complacently 
as  my  friend  Boswell  would  have  done  any  day  or  every  day  of  his 
life.  In  the  meantime  we  did  not  forget  our  duty  ; and  though  we 
had  a better  comedy  going,  in  which  Johnson  was  chief  actor,  we 
betook  ourselves  in  good  time  to  our  separate  and  allotted  posts,  and 
waited  the  awful  drawing  up  of  the  curtain.  As  our  stations  were 
preconcerted,  so  were  our  signals  for  plaudits  arranged  and  determined 
upon  in  a manner  that  gave  every  one  his  cue  where  to  look  for 
them,  and  how  to  follow  them  up. 

“We  had  among  us  a very  worthy  and  efficient  member,  long  since 
lost  to  his  friends  and  the  world  at  large,  Adam  Drummond,  of 
amiable  memory,  who  was  gifted  by  nature  with  the  most  sonorous, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  most  contagious  laugh  that  ever  echoed  from 
the  human  lungs.  The  neighing  of  the  horse  of  the  son  of  Hystaspes 
was  a whisper  to  it ; the  whole  thunder  of  the  theatre  could  not  drown 
it.  This  kind  and  ingenious  friend  fairly  forewarned  us  that  he  knew 
no  more  when  to  give  his  fire  than  the  cannon  did  that  was  planted  on 
a battery.  He  desired,  therefore,  to  have  a flapper  at  his  elbow,  and 
I had  the  honor  to  be  deputed  to  that  office.  I planted  him  in  an  upper 
box,  pretty  nearly  over  the  stage,  in  full  view  of  the  pit  and  galleries, 
and  perfectly  well  situated  to  give  the  echo  all  its  play  through  the 
hollows  and  recesses  of  the  theatre.  The  success  of  our  manoeuvre 
was  complete,  AU  eyes  were  upon  Johnson,  who  sat  in  a front  row 


232 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


of  a side-box ; and  when  he  laughed,  everybody  thought  themselves 
warranted  to  roar.  In  the  meantime,  my  friend  followed  signals  with 
a rattle  so  irresistibly  comic,  that,  when  he  had  repeated  it  several 
times,  the  attention  of  the  spectators  was  so  engrossed  by  his  person 
and  performances,  that  the  progress  of  the  play  seemed  likely  to  be- 
come a secondary  object,  and  I found  it  prudent  to  insinuate  to  him 
.hat  he  might  halt  his  music  without  any  prejudice  to  the  author  ; but 
alas  ! it  was  now  too  i late  to  rein  him  in  ; he  had  laughed  upon  my 
signal  where  he  found  no  joke,  and  now,  unluckily,  he  fancied  that  he 
found  a joke  in  almost  everything  that  was  said  ; so  that  nothing  in 
nature  could  be  more  mal-apropos  than  some  of  his  bursts  every  now 
and  then  were.  These  were  dangerous  moments,  for  the  pit  began  to 
take  umbrage  ; but  we  carried  our  point  through,  and  triumphed  not 
only  over  Colman’s  judgment,  but  our  own.” 

Much  of  this  statement  has  been  condemned  as  exaggerated  or 
discolored.  Cumberland’s  memoirs  have  generally  been  character- 
ized as  partaking  of  romance,  and  in  the  present  instance  he  had 
particular  motives  for  tampering  with  the  truth.  He  was  a 
dramatic  writer  himself,  jealous  of  the  success  of  a rival,  and 
anxious  to  have  it  attributed  to  the  private  management  of 
friends.  According  to  various  accounts,  public  and  private,  such 
management  was  unnecessary,  for  the  piece  was  ‘‘  received  through- 
out with  the  greatest  acclamations.” 

Goldsmith,  in  the  present  instance,  had  not  dared,  as  on  a 
former  occasion,  to  be  present  at  the  first  performance.  He  had 
been  so  overcome  by  his  apprehensions  that,  at  the  preparatory 
dinner,  he  could  hardly  utter  a word,  and  was  so  choked  that  he 
could  not  swallow  a mouthful.  When  his  friends  trooped  to  the 
theatre,  he  stole  away  to  St.  James’s  Park  : there  he  was  found 
by  a friend,  between  seven  and  eight  o’clock,  wandering  up  and 
down  the  Mall  like  a troubled  spirit.  With  difficulty  he  was 
persuaded  to  go  to  the  theatre,  where  his  presence  might  be 
important  should  any  alteration  be  necessary.  He  arrived  at  the 
opening  of  the  fifth  act,  and  made  his  way  behind  the  scenes. 
Just  as  he  entered  there  was  a slight  hiss  at  the  improbability  of 
Tony  Lumpkin’s  trick  on  his  mother,  in  persuading  her  she  was 


SQUIBS  AND  CRACKERS. 


233 


forty  miles  off,  on  Crackskull  Common,  though  she  had  been 
trundled  about  on  her  own  grounds.  “What’s  that?  what’s 
tliat ! ” cried  Goldsmith  to  the  manager,  in  great  agitation. 
“Pshaw!  Doctor,”  replied  Colman,  sarcastically,  “don’t  be 
frightened  at  a squib,  when  we’ve  been  sitting  these  two  hours  on 
a barrel  of  gunpowder  1 ” Though  of  a most  forgiving  nature, 
Goldsmith  did  not  easily  forget  this  ungracious  and  ill-timed  sally. 

If  Colman  was  indeed  actuated  by  the  paltry  motives  ascribed 
to  him  in  his  treatment  of  this  play,  he  was  most  amply  punished 
by  its  success,  and  by  the  taunts,  epigrams,  and  censures  levelled 
at  him  through  the  press,  in  which  his  false  prophecies  were  jeered 
at,  his  critical  judgment  called  in  question,  and  he  was  openly 
taxed  with  literary  jealousy.  So  galling  and  unremitting  was  the 
fire,  that  he  at  length  wrote  to  Goldsmith,  entreating  him  “ to 
take  him  off  the  rack  of  the  newspapers  ” ; in  the  meantime,  to 
escape  the  laugh  that  was  raised  about  him  in  the  theatrical  world 
of  London,  he  took  lefuge  in  Bath  during  the  triumphant  career  of 
the  comedy. 

The  following  is  one  of  the  many  squibs  which  assailed  the  ears 
of  the  manager  : — 

TO  GEORGE  COLMAN,  ESQ., 

ON  THE  SUCCESS  OF  DR.  GOLDSMITH’S  NEW  COMEDY. 

“Come,  Coley,  doff  those  mourning  weeds. 

Nor  thus  with  jokes  be  flamm’d  ; 

Tho’  Goldsmith’s  present  play  succeeds, 

His  next  may  still  be  damn’d. 

“ As  this  has  ’scaped  without  a fall, 

To  sink  his  next  prepare  ; 

New  actors  hire  from  Wapping  Wall, 

And  dresses  from  Rag  Fair. 

“For  scenes  let  tatter’d  blankets  fly, 

The  prologue  Kelly  write  ; 

Then  swear  again  the  piece  must  die 
Before  the  author’s  night. 


234 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


“ Should  these  tricks  fail,  the  lucky  elf,  I 

To  bring  to  lasting  shame,  jj 

E’en  write  the  best  you  can  yourself^  | 

And  print  it  in  his  name,^‘‘  j 

( 

The  solitary  hiss,  which  had  startled  Goldsmith,  was  ascribed  |: 

by  some  of  the  newspaper  scribblers  to  Cumberland  himself,  who  || 

was  manifestly  miserable  ’’  at  the  delight  of  the  audience,  or  to  ^ 
Ossian  Macpherson,  who  was  hostile  to  the  whole  Johnson  clique, 
or  to  Goldsmith’s  dramatic  rival,  Kelly.  The  following  is  one  of 
the  epigrams  which  appeared  : — 

“At  Dr.  Goldsmith’s  merry  play, 

All  the  spectators  laugh,  they  say  ; 

The  assertion,  sir,  I must  deny,  i 

For  Cumberland  and  Kelly  cry.  ' 

Ride  si  sapis,’'^ 

Another,  addressed  to  Goldsmith,  alludes  to  Kelly’s  early  appren- 
ticeship to  stay-making  : — 

“ If  Kelly  finds  fault  with  the  shape  of  your  muse, 

And  thinks  that  too  loosely  it  plays. 

He  surely,  dear  Doctor,  will  never  refuse 
To  make  it  a new  Fah'  of  Stays  ! ” 

Cradock  had  returned  to  the  country  before  the  production  of 
the  play  ; the  following  letter,  written  just  after  the  performance, 
gives  an  additional  picture  of  the  thorns  which  beset  an  author  in 
the  path  of  theatrical  literature  : — 

“ My  dear  Sir,  — 

“The  play  has  met  with  a success  much  beyond  your  expectations 
or  mine.  I thank  you  sincerely  for  your  epilogue,  which,  however, 
could  not  be  used,  but  with  your  permission  shall  be  printed.  The 
story  in  short  is  this.  Murphy  sent  me  rather  the  outline  of  an  epilogue 
than  an  epilogue,  which  was  to  be  sung  by  Miss  Catley,  and  which 
she  approved  ; Mrs.  Bulkley,  hearing  this,  insisted  on  throwing  up 
her  part”  {Miss  Hardcastle)  “ unless,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
theatre,  she  were  permitted  to  speak  the  epilogue.  In  this  embarrass- 
ment I thought  of  making  a quarrelling  epilogue  between  Catley  and 


DEDICATION. 


235 


her,  debating  who  should  speak  the  epilogue;  but  then  Miss  Catley 
refused  after  I had  taken  the  trouble  of  drawing  it  out.  1 was  then  at 
a loss  indeed  ; an  epilogue  was  to  be  made,  and  for  none  but  Mrs. 
Bulkley.  I made  one,  and  Colman  thought  it  too  bad  to  be  spoken  ; 
I was  obliged,  therefore,  to  try  a fourth  time,  and  I made  a very 
mawkish  thing,  as  you’ll  shortly  see.  Such  is  the  history  of  my  stage 
adventures,  and  which  I have  at  last  done  with.  I cannot  help  say- 
ing that  I am  very  sick  of  the  stage  ; and  though  I believe  I shall  get 
three  tolerable  benefits,  yet  I shall,  on  the  whole,  be  a loser,  even  in  a 
pecuniary  light ; my  ease  and  comfort  I certainly  lost  while  it  was  in 
agitation. 

“ I am,  my  dear  Cradock,  your  obliged  and  obedient  servant, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith. 

“ P.S.  — Present  my  most  humble  respects  to  Mrs.  Cradock.” 

Johnson,  who  had  taken  such  a conspicuous  part  in  promoting 
the  interest  of  poor  Goldy,’’  was  triumphant  at  the  success  of 
the  piece.  ‘‘  I know  of  no  comedy  for  many  years,”  said  he, 
“ that  has  so  much  exhilarated  an  audience ; that  has  answered  so 
much  the  great  end  of  comedy  — making  an  audience  merry.” 

Goldsmith  was  happy,  also,  in  gleaning  applause  from  less  author- 
itative sources.  Northcote,  the  painter,  then  a youthful  pupil  of 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  and  Ralph,  Sir  Joshua’s  confidential  man, 
had  taken  their  stations  in  the  gallery  to  lead  the  applause  in 
that  quarter.  Goldsmith  asked  North  cote’s  opinion  of  the  play. 
The  youth  modestly  declared  he  could  not  presume  to  judge  on 
such  matters.  ‘‘Did  it  make  you  laugh?”  “Oh,  exceedingly!” 
“ That  is  all  I require,”  replied  Goldsmith ; and  rewarded  him  for 
his  criticism  by  box-tickets  for  his  first  benefit-night. 

The  comedy  was  immediately  put  to  press,  and  dedicated  to 
Johnson  in  the  following  grateful  and  affectionate  terms  : — 

“ In  ascribing  this  slight  performance  to  you,  I do  not  mean  so  much 
to  compliment  you  as  myself.  It  may  do  me  some  honor  to  inform  the 
public  that  I have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.  It  may 
serve  the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  inform  them,  that  the  greatest 
wit  may  be  found  in  a character,  without  impairing  the  most  unaffected 
piety.” 


236 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


The  copyright  was  transferred  to  Mr.  ISFewbery,  according  to 
agreement,  whose  profits  on  the  sale  of  the  work  far  exceeded  the  | 
debts  for  which  the  author  in  his  perplexities  had  preengaged  it.  j 
The  sum  which  accrued  to  Goldsmith  from  his  benefit-nights  1 
afforded  but  a slight  palliation  of  his  pecuniary  difficulties.  His  I 
friends,  while  they  exulted  in  his  success,  little  knew  of  his  contin-  | 
ually  increasing  embarrassments,  and  of  the  anxiety  of  mind  which 
kept  tasking  his  pen  while  it  impaired  the  ease  and  freedom  of 
spirit  necessary  to  felicitous  composition. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

The  triumphant  success  of  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  brought 
forth,  of  course,  those  carpings  and  cavillings  of  underling  scrib- 
blers, which  are  the  thorns  and  briers  in  the  path  of  successful 
authors.  Goldsmith,  though  easily  nettled  by  attacks  of  the  kind, 
w^as  at  present  too  well  satisfied  with  the  reception  of  his  comedy 
to  heed  them  ; but  the  following  anonymous  letter,  which  appeared 
in  a public  paper,  was  not  to  be  taken  with  equal  equanimity : — 

{For  the  London  Packet.) 

“TO  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

“ Vous  vous  noyez  par  vanite. 

“ Sir,  — The  happy  knack  which  you  have  learned  of  puffing  your 
own  compositions  provokes  me  to  come  forth.  You  have  not  been  the 
editor  of  newspapers  and  magazines  not  to  discover  the  trick  of  lit- 
erary humbug  ; but  the  gauze  is  so  thin  that  the  very  foolish  part  of 
the  world  see  through  it,  and  discover  the  Doctor’s  monkey-face  and 
cloven  foot.  Your  poetic  vanity  is  as  unpardonable  as  your  personal. 
Would  man  believe  it,  and  will  woman  bear  it,  to  be  told  that  for 
hours  the  great  Goldsmith  wih  stand  surveying  his  grotesque  orang- 
outang’s figure  in  a pier-glass  ? Was  but  the  lovely  H — k as  much 
enamored,  you  would  not  sigh,  my  gentle  swain,  in  vain.  But  your 
vanity  is  preposterous.  How  will  this  same  bard  of  Bedlam  ring  the 
changes  in  the  praise  of  Goldy ! But  what  has  he  to  be  either  proud 


A JVUlVSPAPm^  ATTACK, 


237 


or  vain  of  ? The  Traveller  is  a flimsy  poem,  built  upon  false  princi- 
ples — principles  diametrically  opposite  to  liberty.  What  is  The  Gooch 
natured  Man  but  a poor,  water-gruel  dramatic  dose  ? What  is  The 
Deserted  Village  but  a pretty  poem  of  easy  numbers,  without  fancy, 
dignity,  genius,  or  fire  ? And,  pray,  what  may  be  the  last  speaking 
pantomime,  so  praised  by  the  Doctor  himself,  but  an  incoherent  piece 
of  stuff,  the  figure  of  a woman  with  a fish’s  tail,  without  plot,  incident, 
or  intrigue  ? We  are  made  to  laugh  at  stale,  dull  jokes,  wherein  we 
mistake  pleasantry  for  wit,  and  grimace  for  humor  ; wherein  every 
scene  is  unnatural  and  inconsistent  with  the  rules,  the  laws  of  nature 
and  of  the  drama  ; viz.  : two  gentlemen  come  to  a man  of  fortune’s 
house,  eat,  drink,  &c.,  and  take  it  for  an  inn.  The  one  is  intended  as 
a lover  for  the  daughter  : he  talks  with  her  for  some  hours  ; and,  when 
he  sees  her  again  in  a different  dress,  he  treats  her  as  a bar-girl,  and 
swears  she  squinted.  He  abuses  the  master  of  the  house,  and  threat- 
ens to  kick  him  out  of  his  own  doors.  The  squire,  whom  we  are  told 
is  to  be  a fool,  proves  to  be  the  most  sensible  being  of  the  piece  ; and 
he  makes  out  a whole  act  by  bidding  his  mother  lie  close  behind  a 
bush,  persuading  her  that  his  father,  her  own  husband,  is  a highway- 
man, and  that  he  has  come  to  cut  their  throats  ; and,  to  give  his  cousin 
an  opportunity  to  go  off,  he  drives  his  mother  over  hedges,  ditches,  and 
through  ponds.  There  is  hot,  sweet,  sucking  Johnson,  a natural  stroke 
in  the  whole  play  but  the  young  fellow’s  giving  the  stolen  jewels  to  the 
mother,  supposing  her  to  be  the  landlady.  That  Mr.  Colman  did  no 
justice  to  this  piece,  I honestly  allow ; that  he  told  all  his  friends  it 
would  be  damned,  I positively  aver  ; and,  from  such  ungenerous  insin- 
uations, without  a dramatic  merit,  it  rose  to  public  notice,  and  it  is  now 
the  ton  to  go  and  see  it,  though  I never  saw  a person  that  either  liked 
it  or  approved  it,  any  more  than  the  absurd  plot  of  Home’s  tragedy  of 
Alonzo.  Mr.  Goldsmith,  correct  your  arrogance,  reduce  your  vanity, 
and  endeavor  to  believe,  as  a man,  you  are  of  the  plainest  sort,  — and 
as  an  author,  but  a mortal  piece  of  mediocrity. 

“ Brise  le  miroir  infidele 
Qui  vous  cache  la  verite. 

“Tom  Tickle.” 

It  would  be  difficult  to  devise  a letter  more  calculated  to  wound 
the  peculiar  sensibilities  of  Goldsmith.  The  attacks  upon  him  as 
an  author,  though  annoying  enough,  he  could  have  tolerated ; but 
then  the  allusion  to  his  ‘‘grotesque ’’ person  ; to  his  studious  at- 


238 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


tempts  to  adorn  it ; and,  above  all,  to  his  being  an  unsuccessful 
admirer  of  the  lovely  H — k (the  Jessamy  Bride),  struck  rudely 
upon  the  most  sensitive  part  of  his  highly  sensitive  nature.  The 
paragraph,  it  is  said,  was  first  pointed  out  to  him  by  an  officious 
friend,  an  Irishman,  who  told  him  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  resent 
it ; but  he  needed  no  such  prompting.  He  was  in  a high  state  of 
excitement  and  indignation,  and,  accompanied  by  his  friend,  who  is 
said  to  have  been  a Captain  Higgins,  of  the  marines,  he  repaired 
to  Paternoster  Row,  to  the  shop  of  Evans,  the  publisher,  whom  he 
supposed  to  be  the  editor  of  the  paper.  Evans  was  summoned  by 
his  shopman  from  an  adjoining  room.  Goldsmith  announced  his 
name.  “ I have  called,’’  added  he,  ‘‘  in  consequence  of  a scurrilous 
attack  made  upon  me,  and  an  unwarrantable  liberty  taken  with 
the  name  of  a young  lady.  As  for  myself,  I care  little ; but  her 
name  must  not  be  sported  with.” 

Evans  professed  utter  ignorance  of  the  matter,  and  said  he 
would  speak  to  the  editor.  He  stooped  to  examine  a file  of  the 
paper,  in  search  of  the  offensive  article ; whereupon  Goldsmith’s 
friend  gave  him  a signal,  that  now  was  a favorable  moment  for 
the  exercise  of  his  cane.  The  hint  was  taken  as  quick  as  given, 
and  the  cane  was  vigorously  applied  to  the  back  of  the  stooping 
publisher.  The  latter,  rallied  in  an  instant,  and,  being  a stout, 
high-blooded  Welshman,  returned  the  blows  with  interest.  A 
lamp  hanging  overhead  was  broken,  and  sent  down  a shower  of  oil 
upon  the  combatants ; but  the  battle  raged  with  unceasing  fury. 
The  shopman  ran  off  for  a constable;  but  Dr.  Kenrick,  who 
happened  to  be  in  the  adjacent  room,  sallied  forth,  interfered 
between  the  combatants,  and  put  an  end  to  the  affray.  He  con- 
ducted Goldsmith  to  a coach,  in  exceedingly  battered  and  tattered 
plight,  and  accompanied  him  home,  soothing  him  with  much  mock 
commiseration,  though  he  was  generally  suspected,  and  on  good 
grounds,  to  be  the  author  of  the  libel. 

Evans  immediately  instituted  a suit  against  Goldsmith  for  an 
assault,  but  was  ultimately  prevailed  upon  to  compromise  the 
matter,  the  poet  contributing  fifty  pounds  to  the  Welsh  charity. 


THE  EVANS  AFFRAY, 


239 


Newspapers  made  themselves,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  exceed- 
ingly merry  with  the  combat.  Some  censured  him  severely  for 
invading  the  sanctity  of  a man’s  own  house ; others  accused  him 
of  having,  in  his  former  capacity  of  editor  of  a magazine,  been 
guilty  of  the  very  offences  that  he  now  resented  in  others.  This 
drew  from  him  the  following  vindication  : — 

“ To  the  Public, 

“ Lest  it  should  be  supposed  that  I have  been  willing  to  correct  in 
others  an  abuse  of  which  I have  been  guilty  myself,  I beg  leave  to 
declare,  that,  in  all  my  life,  I never  wrote  or  dictated  a single  para- 
graph, letter,  or  essay  in  a newspaper,  except  a few  moral  essays 
under  the  character  of  a Chinese,  about  ten  years  ago,  in  the 
Ledger^  and  a letter,  to  which  I signed  my  name,  in  the  St.  James's 
Chro7iicle.  If  the  liberty  of  the  press,  therefore,  has  been  abused,  I 
have  had  no  hand  in  it. 

“I  have  always  considered  the  press  as  the  protector  of  our  free- 
dom, as  a watchful  guardian,  capable  of  uniting  the  weak  against  the 
encroachments  of  power.  AVhat  concerns  the  public  most  properly 
admits  of  a public  discussion.  But,  of  late,  the  press  has  turned  from 
defending  public  interest  to  making  inroads  upon  private  life  ; from 
combating  the  strong  to  overwhelming  the  feeble.  No  condition  is 
now  too  obscure  for  its  abuse,  and  the  protector  has  become  the 
tyrant  of  the  people.  In  this  manner  the  freedom  of  the  press  is 
beginning  to  sow  the  seeds  of  its  own  dissolution  ; the  great  must 
oppose  it  from  principle,  and  the  weak  from  fear ; till  at  last  every 
rank  of  mankind  shall  be  found  to  give  up  its  benefits,  content  with 
security  from  insults. 

“ How  to  put  a stop  to  this  licentiousness,  by  which  all  are  indis- 
criminately abused,  and  by  which  vice  consequently  escapes  in  the 
general  censure,  I am  unable  to  tell  ; all  I could  wish  is,  that,  as  the 
law  gives  us  no  protection  against  the  injury,  so  it  should  give  calum- 
niators no  shelter  after  having  provoked  correction.  The  insults 
which  we . receive  before  the  public,  by  being  more  open,  are  the 
more  distressing ; by  treating  them  with  silent  contempt  we  do  not 
pay  a sufficient  deference  to  the  opinion  of  the  world.  By  recurring 
to  legal  redress  we  too  often  expose  the  weakness  of  the  law,  which 
only  serves  to  increase  our  mortification  by  failing  to  relieve  us.  In 
short,  every  man  should  singly  consider  himself  as  the  guardian  of 


240 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


the  liberty  of  the  press,  and,  as  far  as  his  influence  can  extend, 
should  endeavor  to  prevent  its  licentiousness  becoming  at  last  the 
grave  of  its  freedom. 

“ Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

Boswell,  who  had  just  arrived  in  town,  met  with  this  article  in 
a newspaper  which  he  found  at  Dr.  Johnson’s.  The  Doctor  was 
from  home  at  the  time,  and  Bozzy  and  Mrs.  Williams,  in  a critical 
conference  over  the  letter,  determined  from  the  style  that  it  must 
have  been  written  by  the  lexicographer  himself  The  latter  on 
his  return  soon  undeceived  them.  ‘‘  Sir,”  said  he  to  Boswell, 
“Goldsmith  would  no  more  have  asked  me  to  have  wrote  such  a 
thing  as  that  for  him  than  he  would  have  asked  me  to  feed  him 
with  a spoon,  or  do  anything  else  that  denoted  his  imbecility. 
Sir,  had  he  shown  it  to  any  one  friend,  he  would  not  have 
been  allowed  to  publish  it.  He  has,  indeed,  done  it  very  well ; 
but  it  is  a foolish  thing  w^ell  done.  I suppose  he  has  been  so 
much  elated  with  the  success  of  his  new  comedy,  that  he  has 
thought  everything  that  concerned  him  must  be  of  importance  to 
the  public.” 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

The  return  of  Boswell  to  town  to  his  task  of  noting  down  the 
conversations  of  Johnson,  enables  us  to  glean  from  his  journal 
some  scanty  notices  of  Goldsmith.  It  was  now  Holy- Week,  a 
time  during  which  Johnson  was  particularly  solemn  in  his  manner 
and  strict  in  his  devotions.  Boswell,  who  was  the  imitator  of  the 
great  moralist  in  everything,  assumed,  of  course,  an  extra  devout- 
ness on  the  present  occasion.  “ He  had  an  odd  mock  solemnity 
of  tone  and  manner,”  said  Miss  Burney,  (afterwards  Madame 
D’iVrblay,)  “ which  he  had  acquired  from  constantly  thinking,  and 
imitating  Dr.  Johnson.”  It  would  seem  that  he  undertook  to 
(l,eal  out  some  second-hand  homilies,  a la  Johnwn,  for  the  edifica- 
tion of  Goldsmith  during  Holy- Week.  The  poet,  whatever  might 
be  his  religious  feeling,  had  no  disposition  to  be  schooled  by  so 


DINNER  AT  OGLETHORPE'S, 


241 


shallow  an  apostle.  “Sir,”  said  he  in  reply,  “as  1 take  my  shoes 
from  the  shoemaker,  and  my  coat  from  the  tailor,  so  I take  my 
religion  from  the  priest.” 

Boswell  treasured  up  the  reply  in  his  memory  or  his  memoran- 
dum-book. A few  days  afterwards,  the  9th  of  April,  he  kept  Good 
Friday  with  Dr.  Johnson,  in  orthodox  style;  breakfasted  with  him 
on  tea  and  cross-buns  ; went  to  church  with  him  morning  and 
evening ; fasted  in  the  interval,  and  read  with  him  in  the  Greek 
Testament : then,  in  the  piety  of  his  heart,  complained  of  the  sore 
rebuff  he  had  met  with  in  the  course  of  his  religious  exhortations  to 
the  poet,  and  lamented  that  the  latter  should  indulge  in  “ this 
loose  way  of  talking.”  “ Sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “ Goldsmith  knows 
nothing — he  has  made  up  his  mind  about  nothing.” 

This  reply  seems  to  have  gratified  the  lurking  jealousy  of  Bos- 
well, and  he  has  recorded  it  in  his  journal.  Johnson,  however, 
with  respect  to  Goldsmith,  and  indeed  with  respect  to  everybody 
else,  blew  hot  as  well  as  cold,  according  to  the  humor  he  was  in. 
Boswell,  who  was  astonished  and  piqued  at  the  continually  increas- 
ing celebrity  of  the  poet,  observed  some  time  after  to  Johnson,  in 
a tone  of  surprise,  that  Goldsmith  had  acquired  more  fame  than  all 
the  officers  of  the  last  war  who  were  not  generals.  “ Why,  sir,” 
answered  Johnson,  his  old  feeling  of  good-will  working  uppermost, 
“ you  will  find  ten  thousand  fit  to  do  what  they  did,  before  you 
find  one  to  do  what  Goldsmith  has  done.  You  must  consider  that 
a thing  is  valued  according  to  its  rarity.  A pebble  that  paves  the 
street  is  in  itself  more  useful  than  the  diamond  upon  a lady’s  finger.” 

On  the  13th  of  April  we  find  Goldsmith  and  Johnson  at  the 
table  of  old  General  Oglethorpe,  discussing  the  question  of  the 
degeneracy  of  the  human  race.  Goldsmith  asserts  the  fact,  and 
attributes  it  to  the  influence  of  luxury.  Johnson  denies  the  fact, 
and  observes,  that,  even  admitting  it,  luxury  could  not  be  the 
cause.  It  reached  but  a small  proportion  of  the  human  race. 
Soldiers,  on  sixpence  a day,  could  not  indulge  in  luxuries ; the  poor 
and  laboring  classes,  forming  the  great  mass  of  mankind,  were  out 
of  its  sphere.  Wherever  it  could  reach  them,  it  strengthened  them 


242 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


and  rendered  them  prolific.  The  conversation  was  not  of  particu- 
lar force  or  point  as  reported  by  Boswell ; the  dinner-party  was  a 
very  small  one,  in  w^hich  there  was  no  provocation  to  intellectual 
display. 

After  dinner  they  took  tea  with  the  ladies,  where  we  find  poor 
Goldsmith  happy  and  at  home,  singing  Tony  Lumpkin’s  song  of 
the  ‘‘Three  Jolly  Pigeons,”  and  another,  called  the  “ Humors  of 
Ballamaguery,”  to  a very  pretty  Irish  tune.  It  was  to  have  been 
introduced  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  but  was  left  out,  as  the 
actress  who  played  the  heroine  could  not  sing.  It  was  in  these 
genial  moments  that  the  sunshine  of  Goldsmith’s  nature  would 
break  out,  and  he  would  say  and  do  a thousand  whimsical  and 
agreeable  things  that  made  him  the  life  of  the  strictly  social  circle. 
Johnson,  with  whom  conversation  was  everything,  used  to  judge 
Goldsmith  too  much  by  his  own  colloquial  standard,  and  under- 
value him  for  being  less  provided  than  himself  with  acquired  facts, 
the  ammunition  of  the  tongue  and  often  the  mere  lumber  of  the 
memory ; others,  however,  valued  him  for  the  native  felicity  of  his 
thoughts,  however  carelessly  expressed,  and  for  certain  good-fellow 
qualities,  less  calculated  to  dazzle  than  to  endear.  “ It  is  amaz- 
ing,” said  Johnson  one  day,  after  he  himself  had  been  talking  like 
an  oracle  ; “ it  is  amazing  how  little  Goldsmith  knows ; he  seldom 
comes  where  he  is  not  more  ignorant  than  any  one  else.”  “ Yet,” 
replied  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  with  affectionate  promptness,  “there 
is  no  man  whose  company  is  more  likedl^ 

Two  or  three  days  after  the  dinner  at  General  Oglethorpe’s, 
Goldsmith  met  Johnson  again  at  the  table  of  General  Paoli,  the 
hero  of  Corsica.  Martinelli,  of  Florence,  author  of  an  Italian 
History  of  England,  was  among  the  guests ; as  was  Boswell,  to 
whom  we  are  indebted  for  minutes  of  the  conversation  which  took 
place.  The  question  was  debated  whether  Martinelli  should  con- 
tinue his  history  down  to  that  day.  “To  be  sure  he  should,”  said 
Goldsmith.  “No,  sir,”  cried  Johnson,  “ it  would  give  great  offence. 
He  would  have  to  tell  of  almost  all  the  living  great  what  they  did 
not  wish  told.”  Goldsmith.  ™ “ It  may,  perhaps,  be  necessary  for 


THE  POLTCY  OF  mVTTL 


248 


a native  to  be  more  cautious  ; but  a foreigner,  who  comes  among  us 
without  prejudice,  may  be  considered  as  holding  the  place  of  a 
judge,  and  may  speak  his  mind  freely/’  Johnson.  — ‘‘  Sir,  a 
foreigner,  when  he  sends  a work  from  the  press,  ought  to  be  on  his 
guard  against  catching  the  error  and  mistaken  enthusiasm  of  the 
people  among  whom  he  happens  to  be.”  Goldsmith. — “Sir,  he 
wants  only  to  sell  his  history,  and  to  tell  truth ; one  an  honest, 
the  other  a laudable  motive.”  Johnson.  — “ Sir,  they  are  both 
laudable  motives.  It  is  laudable  in  a man  to  wish  to  live  by  his 
labors ; but  he  should  write  so  as  he  may  live  by  them,  not  so  as 
he  may  be  knocked  on  the  head.  I would  advise  him  to  be  at 
Calais  before  he  publishes  his  history  of  the  present  age.  A 
foreigner  who  attaches  himself  to  a political  party  in  this  country 
is  in  the  worst  state  that  can  be  imagined ; he  is  looked  upon  as  a 
mere  intermeddler.  A native  may  do  it  from  interest.”  Boswell. 
— “Or  principle.”  Goldsmith.  — “ There  are  people  who  tell  a 
hundred  political  lies  every  day,  and  are  not  hurt  by  it.  Surely, 
then,  one  may  tell  truth  with  perfect  safety.”  Johnson.  — “ Why, 
sir,  in  the  first  place,  he  who  tells  a hundred  lies  has  disarmed  the 
force  of  his  lies.  But,  besides,  a man  had  rather  have  a hundred 
lies  told  of  him  than  one  truth  which  he  does  not  wish  to  be  told.” 
Goldsmith.  — “ For  my  part.  I’d  tell  the  truth,  and  shame  the 
devil.”  Johnson. — “Yes,  sir,  but  the  devil  will  be  angry.  I 
wish  to  shame  the  devil  as  much  as  you  do,  but  I should  choose  to 
be  out  of  the  reach  of  his  claws.”  Goldsmith.  — “ His  claws  can 
do  you  no  hurt  where  you  have  the  shield  of  truth.” 

This  last  reply  was  one  of  Goldsmith’s  lucky  hits,  and  closed 
the  argument  in  his  favor. 

“We  talked,”  writes  Boswell,  “of  the  King’s  coming  to  see 
Goldsmith’s  new  play.”  “I  wish  he  would,”  said  Goldsmith, 
adding,  however,  with  an  affected  indifference,  “ not  that  it  would 
dome  the  least  good.”  “Well,  then,”  cried  Johnson,  laughing, 
“let  us  say  it  would  do  him  good.  No,  sir,  this  affectation  will 
not  pass,  — it  is  mighty  idle.  In  such  a state  as  ours,  who  would 
not  wish  to  please  the  chief  magistrate  ? ” 


244 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


I do  wish  to  please  him,’’  rejoined  Goldsmith,  “ I remember 
a line  in  Dryden  : — 

“ ‘ And  every  poet  is  the  monarch’s  friend  ; ’ 

it  ought  to  be  reversed.”  “ Nay,”  said  Johnson,  “ there  are  finer 
lines  in  Dryden  on  this  subject : 

“ ‘For  colleges  on  bounteous  kings  depend, 

And  never  rebel  was  to  arts  a friend.’  ” 

General  Paoli  observed  that  “successful  rebels  might  be.” 
“ Happy  rebellions,”  interjected  Martinelli.  “ We  have  no  such 
phrase,”  cried  Goldsmith.  “But  have  you  not  the  thing'?” 
asked  Paoli.  “ Yes,”  replied  Goldsmith,  “all  our  happy  revolu-, 
tions.  They  have  hurt  our  constitution,  and  will  hurt  it,  till  we 
mend  it  by  another  happy  revolution.”  This  was  a sturdy 
sally  of  Jacobitism,  that  quite  surprised  Boswell,  but  must  have 
been  relished  by  Johnson. 

General  Paoli  mentioned  a passage  in  the  play,  which  had  been 
construed  into  a compliment  to  a lady  of  distinction,  whose 
marriage  with  the  Duke  of  Cumberland  had  excited  the  strong 
disapprobation  of  the  King  as  a mesalliance.  Boswell,  to  draw 
Goldsmith  out,  pretended  to  think  the  compliment  unintentional. 
The  poet  smiled  and  hesitated.  The  General  came  to  his  relief. 
“Monsieur  Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “est  comme  la  mer,  qui  jette  des 
perles  et  beaucoup  d’autres  belles  choses,  sans  s’en  appercevoir  ” 
(Mr.  Goldsmith  is  like  the  sea,  which  casts  forth  pearls  and  many 
other  beautiful  things  without  perceiving  it). 

“ Tres-bien  dit,  et  tres-^Dgamment  ” (Very  well  said,  and  very 
elegantly),  exclaimed  Goldsmith,  delighted  with  so  beautiful  a 
compliment  from  such  a quarter. 

Johnson  spoke  disparagingly  of  the  learning  of  Mr.  Harris,  of 
Salisbury,  and  doubted  his  being  a good  Grecian.  “ He  is  what 
is  much  better,”  cried  Goldsmith,  with  prompt  good-nature,  — 
“ he  is  a worthy,  humane  man.”  “ Nay,  sir,”  rejoined  the  logical 
Johnson,  “that  is  not  to  the  purpose  of  our  argument ; that  will 
prove  that  he  can  play  upon  the  fiddle  as  well  as  Giardini,  as  that 


QUESTION  ABOUT  SUICIDE. 


245 


he  is  an  eminent  Grecian.”  Goldsmith  found  he  had  got  into  a 
scrape,  and  seized  upon  Giardini  to  help  him  out  of  it.  ‘‘  The 
greatest  musical  performers,”  said  he,  dexterously  turning  the 
conversation,  “ have  but  small  emoluments ; Giardini,  I am  told, 
does  not  get  above  seven  hundred  a year.”  “ That  is  indeed  but 
little  for  a man  to  get,”  observed  Johnson,  “ who  does  best  that 
which  so  many  endeavor  to  do.  There  is  nothing,  I think,  in 
which  the  power  of  art  is  shown  so  much  as  in  playing  on  the 
fiddle.  In  all  other  things  we  can  do  something  at  first.  Any 
man  will  forge  a bar  of  iron,  if  you  give  him  a hammer;  not  so 
well  as  a smith,  but  tolerably.  A man  will  saw  a piece  of  wood, 
and  make  a box,  though  a clumsy  one ; but  give  him  a fiddle  and 
fiddlestick  and  he  can  do  nothing.” 

This,  upon  the  whole,  though  reported  by  the  one-sided  Boswell, 
is  a tolerable  specimen  of  the  conversations  of  Goldsmith  and  John- 
son ; the  former  heedless,  often  illogical,  always  on  the  kind-hearted 
side  of  the  question,  and  prone  to  redeem  himself  by  lucky  hits ; 
the  latter  closely  argumentative,  studiously  sententious,  often 
profound,  and  sometimes  laboriously  prosaic. 

They  had  an  argument  a few  days  later  at  Mr.  Thrale^s  table, 
on  the  subject  of  suicide.  “ Do  you  think,  sir,”  said  Boswell, 
‘‘  that  all  who  commit  suicide  are  mad  ? ” “ Sir,’*  replied  Johnson, 

“ they  are  not  often  universally  disordered  in  their  intellects,  but 
one  passion  presses  so  upon  them  that  they  yield  to  it,  and  com- 
mit suicide,  as  a passionate  man  will  stab  another^  I have  often 
thought,”  added  he,  “ that  after  a man  has  taken  the  resolution 
to  kill  himself,  it  is  not  courage  in  him  to  do  anything,  however 
desperate,  because  he  has  nothing  to  fear.”  “ I don’t  see  that,” 
observed  Goldsmith.  “ Nay,  but,  my  dear  sir,”  rejoined  Johnson, 
“why  should  you  not  see  what  every  one  else  does?”  “It  is,” 
replied  Goldsmith,  “ for  fear  of  something  that  he  has  resolved  to 
kill  himself ; and  will  not  that  timid  disposition  restrain  him  ? ” 
“It  does  not  signify,”  pursued  Johnson,  “ that  the  fear  of  some- 
thing made  him  resolve  ; it  is  upon  the  state  of  his  mind,  after  the 
resolution  is  taken,  that  I argue.  Suppose  a man,  either  from 


246 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


fear,  or  pride,  or  conscience,  or  whatever  motive,  has  resolved  to 
kill  himself ; wlien  once  the  resolution  is  taken  he  has  nothing  to 
fear.  He  may  then  go  and  take  the  King  of  Prussia  by  the  nose 
at  the  head  of  his  army.  He  cannot  fear  the  rack  who  is  deter- 
mined to  kill  himself.”  Boswell  reports  no  more  of  the  discussion, 
though  Goldsmith  might  have  continued  it  with  advantage : for 
the  very  timid  disposition,  which  through  fear  of  something  was 
impelling  the  man  to  commit  suicide,  might  restrain  him  from  an 
.act  involving  the  punishment  of  the  rack,  more  terrible  to  him 
than  death  itself. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  in  all  these  reports  by  Boswell,  we  have 
scarcely  anything  but  the  remarks  of  Johnson ; it  is  only  by  acci- 
dent that  he  now  and  then  gives  us  the  observations  of  others, 
when  they  are  necessary  to  explain  or  set  off  those  of  his  hero. 
“ When  in  that  presence^^^  says  Miss  Burney,  “ he  was  unobservant, 
if  not  contemptuous  of  every  one  else.  In  truth,  when  he  met 
with  Dr.  Johnson,  he  commonly  forbore  even  answering  anything 
that  was  said,  or  attending  to  anything  that  went  forward,  lest  he 
should  miss  the  smallest  sound  from  that  voice,  to  which  he  paid 
such  exclusive,  though  merited. homage.  But  the  moment  that 

voice  burst  forth,  the  attention  which  it  excited  on  Mr.  Boswell 
amounted  almost  to  pain.  His  eyes  goggled  with  eagerness ; he 
leant  his  ear  almost  on  the  shoulder  of  the  Doctor  ; and  his  mouth 
dropped  open  to  catch  every  syllable  that  might  be  uttered ; nay, 
he  seemed  not  only  to  dread  losing  a word,  but  to  be  anxious  not 
to  miss  a breathing,  as  if  hoping  from  it  latently,  or  mystically, 
some  information.” 

On  one  occasion  the  Doctor  detected  Boswell,  or  Bozzy,  as  he 
called  him,  eavesdropping  behind  his  chair,  as  he  was  conversing 
with  Miss  Burney  at  Mr.  Thrale’s  table.  “ What  are  you  doing 
there,  sir  ? ” cried  he,  turning  round  angrily,  and  clapping  his  hand 
upon  his  knee.  “Go  to  the  table,  sir.” 

Boswell  obeyed  with  an  air  of  affright  and  submission,  which 
raised  a smile  on  every  face.  Scarce  had  he  taken  his  seat,  how- 
ever, at  a distance,  than,  impatient  to  get  again  at  the  side  of 


BOSWELL'S  SUBSERVIENCY, 


247 


Johnson,  he  rose  and  was  running  off  in  quest  of  something  to 
show  him,  when  the  Doctor  roared  after  him  authoritatively, 
“ What  are  you  thinking  of,  sir?  Why  do  you  get  up  before  the 
cloth  is  removed  ? Come  back  to  your  place,  sir ; ’’  — and  the 
obsequious  spaniel  did  as  lie  was  commanded.  — Running  about 
in  the  middle  of  meals  ! ’’  muttered  the  Doctor,  pursing  his  mouth 
at  the  same  time  to  restrain  his  rising  risibility. 

Boswell  got  another  rebuff  from  Johnson,  which  would  have 
demolished  any  other  man.  He  had  been  teasing  him  with  many 
direct  questions,  such  as,  ‘‘What  did  you  do,  sir?  — What  did  you 
say,  sir?”  until  the  great  philologist  became  perfectly  enraged. 
“I  will  not  be  put  to  the  question  roared  he.  “Don’t  you 
consider,  sir,  that  these  are  not  the  manners  of  a gentleman  ? I 
will  not  be  baited  with  what  and  why  ; — What  is  this  ? What 
is  that  ? Why  is  a cow’s  tail  long  ? Why  is  a fox’s  tail  bushy  ? ” 
“Why,  sir,”  replied  pilgarlick,  “you  are  so  good  that  I venture  to 
trouble  you.”  “ Sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “ my  being  so  good  is  no 
reason  why  you  should  be  so  ^7^.”  “You  have  but  two  topics, 
sir,”  exclaimed  he  on  another  occasion,  “yourself  and  me,  and  I 
am  sick  of  both.” 

Boswell’s  inveterate  disposition  to  toad^  was  a sore  cause  of 
mortification  to  his  father,  the  old  laird  of  Auchinleck  (or  Affieck). 
He  had  been  annoyed  by  his  extravagant  devotion  to  Paoli,  but 
then  he  was  something  of  a military  hero ; but  this  tagging  at  the 
heels  of  Dr.  Johnson,  whom  he  considered  a kind  of  pedagogue,  set 
his  Scotch  blood  in  a ferment.  “ There’s  nae  hope  for  Jamie, 
mon,”  said  he  to  a friend ; — “ Jamie  is  gaen  clean  gyte.  What 
do  you  think,  mon  ? He’s  done  wi’  Paoli ; he’s  off'  wi’  the  land- 
louping  scoundrel  of  a Corsican ; and  whose  tail  do  you  think  he 
has  pinn’d  himself  to  now,  mon  ? A dominie^  mon ; an  auld 
dominie;  he  keeped  a schule,  and  cau’d  it  an  acaadamy.” 

We  shall  show  in  the  next  chapter  that  Jamie’s  devotion  to  the 
dominie  did  not  go  unrewarded. 


248 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

The  Literary  Club  (as  we  have  termed  the  club  in  Gerard 
Street,  though  it  took  that  name  some  time  later)  had  now  been 
in  existence  several  years.  Johnson  was  exceedingly  chary  at  first 
of  its  exclusiveness,  and  opposed  to  its  being  augmented  in  number. 
Not  long  after  its  institution,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  was  speaking 
of  it  to  Garrick.  “ I like  it  much,”  said  little  David,  briskly ; “I 
think  I shall  be  of  you.”  ‘‘  When  Sir  Joshua  mentioned  this  to 
Dr.  Johnson,”  says  Boswell,  “ he  was  much  displeased  with  the 
actor’s  conceit.  ‘ He^ll  he  of  us  ? ’ growled  he.  ‘ How  does  he 
know  we  will  permit  him?  The  first  duke  in  England  has  no 
right  to  hold  such  language.’  ” 

When  Sir  John  Hawkins  spoke  favorably  of  Garrick’s  preten- 
sions, “Sir,”  replied  Johnson,  “he  will  disturb  us  by  his  buffoon- 
ery.” In  the  same  spirit  he  declared  to  Mr.  Thrale,  that,  if 
Garrick  should  apply  for  admission,  he  would  black-ball  him. 

“ Who,  sir  ? ” exclaimed  Thrale,  with  surprise  ; “ Mr.  Garrick  — 
your  friend,  your  companion  — black-ball  him!”  “Why,  sir,” 
replied  Johnson,  “I  love  my  little  David  dearly  — better  than  all 
or  any  of  his  flatterers  do ; but  surely  one  ought  to  sit  in  a society 
like  ours, 

“ ‘ Unelbowed  by  a gamester,  pimp,  or  player.’  ” 

The  exclusion  from  the  club  was  a sore  mortification  to  Garrick, 
though  he  bore  it  without  complaining.  He  could  not  help  con- 
tinually to  ask  questions  about  it  — what  was  going  on  there  — i 
whether  he  was  ever  the  subject  of  conversation.  By  degrees  the 
rigor  of  the  club  relaxed : some  of  the  members  grew  negligent. 
Beauclerc  lost  his  right  of  membership  by  neglecting  to  attend. 

On  his  marriage,  however,  with  Lady  Diana  Spencer,  daughter  of 
the  Duke  of  Marlborough,  and  recently  divorced  from  Viscount 
Bolingbroke,  he  had  claimed  and  regained  his  seat  in  the  club. 
The  number  of  members  had  likewise  been  augmented.  The  prop- 
osition to  increase  it  originated  with  Goldsmith.  “It  would 


ELECTION  OF  BOSWELL, 


249 


give/’  he  thought,  ‘‘  an  agreeable  variety  to  their  meetings ; for 
there  can  be  nothing  new  amongst  us,”  said  he ; “ we  have  travelled 
over  each  other’s  minds.”  Johnson  was  piqued  at  the  suggestion. 
“ Sir,”  said  he,  ‘‘you  have  not  travelled  over  my  mind,  I promise 
you.”  Sir  Joshua,  less  confident  in  the  exhaustless  fecundity  of 
his  mind,  felt  and  acknowledged  the  force  of  Goldsmith’s  sugges- 
tion. Several  new  members,  therefore,  had  been  added ; the  first, 
to  his  great  joy,  was  David  Garrick.  Goldsmith,  who  was  now 
on  cordial  terms  with  him,  had  zealously  promoted  his  election, 
and  Johnson  had  given  it  his  warm  approbation.  Another  new 
member  was  Beauclerc’s  friend.  Lord  Charlemont ; and  a still  more 
important  one  was  Mr.  (afterwards  Sir  William)  Jones,  the  famous 
Orientalist,  at  that  time  a young  lawyer  of  the  Temple  and  a dis- 
tinguished scholar. 

To  the  great  astonishment  of  the  club,  Johnson  now  proposed 
his  devoted  follower,  Boswell,  as  a member.  He  did  it  in  a note 
addressed  to  Goldsmith,  who  presided  on  the  evening  of  the  23d  of 
April.  The  nomination  was  seconded  by  Beauclerc.  According 
to  the  rules  of  the  club,  the  ballot  would  take  place  at  the  next 
meeting  (on  the  30th) ; there  was  an  intervening  week,  therefore, 
in  which  to  discuss  the  pretensions  of  the  candidate.  We  may 
easily  imagine  the  discussions  that  took  place.  Boswell  had  made 
himself  absurd  in  such  a variety  of  ways  that  the  very  idea  of  his 
admission  was  exceedingly  irksome  to  some  of  the  members.  “ The 
honor  of  being  elected  into  the  Turk’s  Head  Club,”  said  the  Bishop 
of  St.  Asaph,  “ is  not  inferior  to  that  of  being  representative  of 
Westminster  and  Surrey;”  what  had  Boswell  done  to  merit  such 
an  honor?  What  chance  had  he  of  gaining  it?  The  answer  was 
simple : he  had  been  the  persevering  wors Upper,  if  not  sycophant 
of  Johnson.  Tlie  great  lexicographer  had  a heart  to  be  won  by 
apparent  affection ; he  stood  forth  authoritatively  in  support  of  his 
vassal.  If  asked  to  state  the  merits  of  the  candidate,  he  summed 
them  up  in  an  indefinite  but  comprehensive  word  of  his  own  coin- 
ing:— he  was  cluhahle.  He  moreover  gave  significant  hints  that 
if  Boswell  were  kept  out  he  should  oppose  the  admission  of  any 


250 


OLIVEJl  GOLDSMITH. 


other  candidate.  No  furtlier  opposition  was  made  ; in  fact  none  of 
the  members  had  been  so  fastidious  and  exclusive  in  regard  to  the 
club  as  Johnson  himself;  and  if  he  were  pleased,  they  were  easily 
satisfied : besides,  they  knew  that,  with  all  his  faults,  Boswell  was 
a cheerful  companion,  and  possessed  lively  social  qualities. 

On  Friday,  when  the  ballot  was  to  take  place,  Beauclerc  gave  a 
dinner,  at  his  house  in  the  Adelphi,  where  Boswell  met  several  of 
the  members  who  were  favorable  to  his  election.  After  dinner  the 
latter  adjourned  to  the  club,  leaving  Boswell  in  company  with 
Lady  Di  Beauclerc  until  the  fate  of  his  election  should  be  known. 
He  sat,  he  says,  in  a state  of  anxiety  which  even  the  charming 
conversation  of  Lady  Di  could  not  entirely  dissipate.  It  was  not 
long  before  tidings  were  brought  of  his  election,  and  he  was  con- 
ducted to  the  place  of  meeting,  where,  beside  the  company  he  had 
met  at  dinner,  Burke,  Dr.  Nugent,  Garrick,  Goldsmith,  and  Mr. 
William  Jones  were  waiting  to  receive  him.  The  club,  notwith- 
standing all  its  learned  dignity  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  could  at 
times  “ unbend  and  play  the  fool  as  well  as  less  important  bodies. 
Some  of  its  jocose  conversations  have  at  times  leaked  out,  and 
a society  in  which  Goldsmith  could  venture  to  sing  his  song  of  “ an 
old  woman  tossed  in  a blanket,’’  could  not  be  so  very  staid  in  its 
gravity.  We  may  suppose,  therefore,  the  jokes  that  had  been 
passing  among  the  members  while  awaiting  the  arrival  of  Bos- 
well. Beauclerc  himself  could  not  have  repressed  his  disposition 
for  a sarcastic  pleasantry.  At  least  we  have  a right  to  presume 
all  this  from  the  conduct  of  Dr.  Johnson  himself. 

With  all  his  gravity  he  possessed  a deep  fund  of  quiet  humor, 
and  felt  a kind  of  whimsical  responsibility  to  protect  the  club  from 
the  absurd  propensities  of  the  very  questionable  associate  he  had 
thus  inflicted  on  them.  Rising,  therefore,  as  Boswell  entered,  he 
advanced  with  a very  doctorfal  air,  placed  himself  behind  a chair, 
on  which  he  leaned  as  on  a desk  or  pulpit,  and  then  delivered,  ex 
cathedra^  a mock  solemn  charge,  pointing  out  the  conduct  expected 
from  him  as  a good  member  of  the  club ; what  he  was  to  do,  and 
especially  what  he  was  to  avoid ; including  in  the  latter,  no  doubt, 


CONVERSATION  ON  NATURAL  HISTORY.  251 


all  those  petty,  prying,  questioning,  gossiping,  babbling  habits 
which  had  so  often  grieved  the  spirit  of  the  lexicographer.  It  is 
to  be  regretted  that  Boswell  has  never  thought  proper  to  note 
down  the  particulars  of  this  charge,  which,  from  the  well-known 
characters  and  positions  of  the  parties,  might  have  furnished  a 
parallel  to  the  noted  charge  of  Launcelot  Gobbo  to  his  dog. 


CHAPTER  XLL 

A PEW  days  after  the  serio-comic  scene  of  the  elevation  of  Boswell 
into  the  Literary  Club,  we  find  that  indefatigable  biographer  giving 
particulars  of  a dinner  at  the  Dillys’,  booksellers,  in  the  Poultry,  at 
which  he  met  Goldsmith  and  Johnson,  with  several  other  literary 
diaracters.  His  anecdotes  of  the  conversation,  of  course,  go  to 
glorify  Dr.  Johnson  ; for,  as  he  observes  in  his  biography,  ‘‘his 
conversation  alone,  or  what  led  to  it,  or  was  interwoven  with  it, 
is  the  business  of  this  work.’’  Still  on  the  present,  as  on  other  oc- 
casions, he  gives  unintentional  and  perhaps  unavoidable  gleams  of 
Goldsmith’s  good  sense,  which  show  that  the  latter  only  wanted  a 
less  prejudiced  and  more  impartial  reporter,  to  put  down  the  charge 
of  colloquial  incapacity  so  unjustly  fixed  upon  him.  The  conversa- 
tion turned  upon  the  natural  history  of  birds,  a beautiful  subject, 
on  which  the  poet,  from  his  recent  studies,  his  habits  of  observation, 
and  his  natural  tastes,  must  have  talked  with  instruction  and  feel- 
ing ; yet,  though  we  have  much  of  what  Johnson  said,  we  have 
only  a casual  remark  or  two  of  Goldsmith.  One  was  on  the  migra- 
tion of  swallows,  which  he  pronounced  partial ; “ the  stronger  ones,” 
said  he,  “ migrate,  the  others  do  not.” 

Johnson  denied  to  the  brute  creation  the  faculty  of  reason. 
“ Birds,”  said  he,  “ build  by  instinct  * they  never  improve ; they 
build  their  first  nest  as  well  as  any  one  they  ever  build.”  “Yet 
we  see,”  observed  Goldsmith,  “ if  you  take  away  a bird’s-nest  with 
the  eggs  in  it,  she  will  make  a slighter  nest  and  lay  again.”  “Sir,” 
replied  Johnson,  “ that  is  because  at  first  she  has  full  time,  and 


252 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


makes  her  nest  deliberately.  In  the  case  you  mention,  she  is 
pressed  to  lay,  and  must,  therefore,  make  her  nest  quickly,  and  j 

consequently  it  will  be  slight.”  “The  nidification  of  birds,”  i 

rejoined  Goldsmith,  “ is  what  is  least  known  in  natural  ' 

history,  though  one  of  the  most  curious  things  in  it.”  While  con-  ^ 

versation  was  going  on  in  this  placid,  agreeable,  and  instructive  i 

manner,  the  eternal  meddler  and  busybody,  Boswell,  must  intrude 
to  put  in  a brawl.  The  Dillys  were  dissenters  ; two  of  their  guests  j 
were  dissenting  clergymen ; another,  Mr.  Toplady,  was  a clergy- 
man of  the  established  church.  Johnson  himself  was  a zealous, 
uncompromising  churchman.  None  but  a marplot  like  Boswell 
would  have  thought,  on  such  an  occasion  and  in  such  company,  to 
broach  the  subject  of  religious  toleration  ; but,  as  has  been  well  ob-  | 
served,  “it  was  liis  perverse  inclination  to  introduce  subjects  that 
he  hoped  would  produce  difference  and  debate.”  In  the  present 
instance  he  gained  his  point.  An  animated  dispute  immediately 
arose,  in  which,  according  to  Boswell’s  report,  Johnson  monopolized 
the  greater  part  of  the  conversation ; not  always  treating  the  dis- 
senting clergymen  with  the  greatest  curtesy,  and  even  once  wound- 
ing the  feelings  of  the  mild  and  amiable  Bennet  Langton  by  his 
harshness. 

Goldsmith  mj’ngled  a little  in  the  dispute  and  with  some  advan- 
tage, but  was  cut  short  by  flat  contradictions  when  most  in  the 
right.  He  sat  for  a time  silent  but  impatient  under  such  over- 
bearing dogmatism,  though  Boswell,  with  his  usual  misinterpreta- 
tion, attributes  his  “ restless  agitation  ” to  a wish  to  get  in  and 
shine.  “ Finding  himself  excluded,”  continues  Boswell,  “ he  had 
taken  his  hat  to  go  away,  but  remained  for  a time  with  it  in  his 
hand,  like  a gamester  who  at  the  end  of  a long  night  lingers  for  a 
little  while  to  see  if  he  can  have  a favorable  opportunity  to  finish 
with  success.”  Once  he  was  beginning  to  speak,  when  he  was 
overpowered  by  the  loud  voice  of  Johnson,  w’ho  was  at  the  opposite 
end  of  the  table,  and  did  not  perceive  his  attempt ; whereupon  he 
threw  down,  as  it  were,  his  hat  and  his  argument,  and,  darting  an 
angry  glance  at  Johnson,  exclaimed  in  a bitter  tone,  “ Take  it.^^ 


JOHNSON'S  REBUFF  TO  GOLDSMITH. 


253 


Just  then  one  of  the  disputants  was  beginning  to  speak,  when 
Johnson  uttering  some  sound,  as  if  about  to  interrupt  him,  Gold- 
smith, according  to  Boswell,  seized  the  opportunity  to  vent  his  own 
env^  and  spleen  under  pretext  of  supporting  another  person. 
‘‘  Sir,”  said  he  to  Johnson,  “the  gentleman  has  heard  you  patiently 
for  an  hour ; pray  allow  us  now  to  hear  him.”  It  was  a reproof 
in  the  lexicographer’s  own  style,  and  he  may  have  felt  that  he  mer- 
ited it ; but  he  was  not  accustomed  to  be  reproved.  “ Sir,”  said 
he,  sternly,  “ I was  not  interrupting  the  gentleman  ; I was  only 
giving  him  a signal  of  my  attention.  Sir,  you  are  impertinent.^^ 
Goldsmith  made  no  reply,  but  after  some  time  went  away,  having 
another  engagement. 

That  evening,  as  Boswell  was  on  the  way  with  Johnson  and 
Langton  to  the  club,  he  seized  the  occasion  to  make  some  disparaging 
remarks  on  Goldsmith,  which  lie  thought  would  just  then  be  accept- 
able to  the  great  lexicographer.  “It  was  a pity,”  he  said,  “that 
Goldsmith  would  on  every  occasion  endeavor  to  shine,  by  which  he 
so  often  exposed  himself.”  Langton  contrasted  him  with  Addison, 
who,  content  with  the  fame  of  his  writings,  acknowledged  himself  unfit 
for  conversation  ; and  on  being  taxed  by  a lady  with  silence  in  com- 
pany, replied,  “ Madam,  I have  but  ninepence  in  ready  money,  but  I 
can  draw  for  a thousand  pounds.”  To  this  Boswell  rejoined  that 
Goldsmith  had  a great  deal  of  gold  in  his  cabinet,  but  was  always 
taking  out  his  purse.  “Yes,  sir,”  chuckled  Johnson,  “ and  that  so 
often  an  empty  purse.” 

By  the  time  Johnson  arrived  at  the  club,  however,  his  angry 
feelings  had  subsided,  and  his  native  generosity  and  sense  of  justice 
had  got  the  uppermost.  He  found  Goldsmith  in  company  with 
Burke,  Garrick,  and  other  members,  but  sitting  silent  and  apart, 
“ brooding,”  as  Boswell  says,  “over  the  reprimand  he  had  received.” 
Johnson’s  good  heart  yearned  towards  him ; and  knowing  his  pla- 
cable nature,  “I’ll  make  Goldsmith  forgive  me,”  whispered  he  ; 
then,  with  a loud  voice,  “Dr.  Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “something 
passed  to-day  where  you  and  I dined,  — I ask  your  p>ardon.^'‘  The 
ire  of  the  poet  was  extinguished  in  an  instant,  and  his  grateful 


254 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


affection  for  the  magnanimous  though  sometimes  overbearing 
moralist  rushed  to  his  heart.  ‘‘It  must  be  much  from  you,  sir,” 
said  he,  “that  I take  ill!”  “And  so,”  adds  Boswell,  “the  differ- 
ence was  over,  and  they  were  on  as  easy  terms  as  ever,  and  Gold- 
smith rattled  away  as  usual.”  We  do  not  think  these  stories  tell 
to  the  poet’s  disadvantage,  even  though  related  by  Boswell. 

Goldsmith,  with  all  his  modesty,  could  not  be  ignorant  of  his 
proper  merit,  and  must  have  felt  annoyed  at  times  at  being  under- 
valued and  elbowed  aside  by  light-minded  or  dull  men,  in  their 
blind  and  exclusive  homage  to  the  literary  autocrat.  It  was  a fine 
reproof  he  gave  to  Boswell  on  one  occasion,  for  talking  of  Johnson 
as  entitled  to  the  honor  of  exclusive  superiority.  “ Sir,  you  are 
for  making  a monarchy  what  should  be  a republic.”  On  another 
occasion,  when  he  was  conversing  in  company  with  great  vivacity, 
and  apparently  to  the  satisfaction  of  those  around  him,  an  honest 
Swiss  who  sat  near,  one  George  Michael  Moser,  keeper  of  the  Royal 
Academy,  perceiving  Dr.  Johnson  rolling  himself  as  if  about  to 
speak,  exclaimed,  “ Stay,  stay  1 Toctor  Shonson  is  going  to  say 
something.”  “ And  are  you  sure,  sir,”  replied  Goldsmith,  sharply, 
“ that  ^ou  can  comprehend  what  he  says  ? ” 

This  clever  rebuke,  which  gives  the  main  zest  to  the  anecdote, 
is  omitted  by  Boswell,  who  probably  did  not  perceive  the  point 
of  it. 

He  relates  another  anecdote  of  the  kind  on  the  authority  of 
Johnson  himself.  The  latter  and  Goldsmith  were  one  evening  in 
company  with  the  Rev.  George  Graham,  a master  of  Eton,  who, 
notwithstanding  the  sobriety  of  his  cloth,  had  got  intoxicated  “ to 
about  the  pitch  of  looking  at  one  man  and  talking  to  another.” 
“ Doctor,”  cried  he,  in  an  ecstasy  of  devotion  and  good-will,  but 
goggling  by  mistake  upon  Goldsmith,  “ I should  be  glad  to  see  you 
at  Eton.”  “ I shall  be  glad  to  wait  upon  you,”  replied  Goldsmith. 
“No,  no  ! ” cried  the  other,  eagerly  ; “ ’tis  not  you  I mean.  Doctor 
Minor,  ’tis  Doctor  Major  there.”  “You  may  easily  conceive,” 
said  Johnson,  in  relating  the  anecdote,  “ what  effect  this  had  upon 
Goldsmith,  who  was  irascible  as  a hornet.”  The  only  comment. 


GOLT) SMITH  AND  JOHuNSON. 


265 


however,  which  he  is  said  to  have  made,  partakes  more  of  ({iiaiiit 
and  dry  humor  than  bitterness.  “ Tliat  Graham,”  said  he,  “is 
enough  to  make  one  commit  suicide.”  What  more  could  be  said 
to  express  the  intolerable  nuisance  of  a consummate  bore  ? 

We  have  now  given  the  last  scenes  between  Goldsmith  and 
Johnson  which  stand  recorded  by  Boswell.  The  latter  called  on 
the  poet,  a few  days  after  the  dinner  at  Dilly’s,  to  take  leave  of  him 
prior  to  departing  for  Scotland  ; yet,  even  in  this  last  interview,  he 
contrives  to  get  up  a charge  of  “jealousy  and  envy.”  Goldsmitli, 
he  would  fain  persuade  us,  is  very  angry  that  Johnson  is  going  to 
travel  with  him  in  Scotland,  and  endeavors  to  persuade  him  that  he 
will  be  a dead  weight  “to  lug  along  through  the  Highlands  and 
Hebrides.”  Any  one  else,  knowing  the  character  and  habits  of 
Johnson,  would  have  thought  the  same;  and  no  one  but  Boswell 
would  have  supposed  his  office  of  bear-leader  to  the  ursa  major  a 
thing  to  be  envied.^ 


lOne  of  Peter  Pindar’s  (Dr.  Woloot)  most  amusing  jeux  d’esprit  is  his 
congratulatory  epistle  to  Boswell  on  this  tour,  of  which  we  subjoin  a few 
lines. 

“ O Boswell,  Bozzy,  Bruce,  whate’er  thy  name, 

Thou  mighty  shark  for  anecdote  and  fame ; 

Thou  jackal,  leading  lion  Johnson  forth. 

To  eat  M’Pherson  ’midst  his  native  north; 

To  frighten  grave  professors  with  his  roar. 

And  shake  the  Hebrides  from  shore  to  shore, 

Bless’d  be  thy  labors,  most  adventurous  Bozzy, 

Bold  rival  of  Sir  John  and  Dame  Piozzi ; 

Heavens  ! with  what  laurels  shall  thy  head  be  crown’d  ! 

A grove,  a forest,  shall  thy  ears  surround  ! 

Yes  ! whilst  the  Rambler  shall  a comet  blaze. 

And  gild  a world  of  darkness  with  his  rays. 

Thee,  too,  that  world  with  wonderment  shall  hail, 

A lively,  bouncing  cracker  at  his  tail ! ” 


256 


OLIVER  GOLDSMiril. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

The  works  which  Goldsmith  had  still  in  hand  being  already 
paid  for,  and  the  money  gone,  some  new  scheme  must  be  devised  to 
provide  for  the  past  and  the  future,  — for  impending  debts  which 
threatened  to  crush  him,  and  expenses  which  were  continually  in- 
creasing. He  now  projected  a work  of  greater  compass  than  any  he 
had  yet  undertaken : a Dictionary  of  Arts  and  Sciences  on  a com- 
prehensive scale,  which  was  to  occupy  a number  of  volumes.  For 
this  he  received  promise  of  assistance  from  several  powerful  hands. 
Johnson  was  to  contribute  an  article  on  ethics  ; Burke,  an  ab- 
stract of  his  Essay  on  the  Sublime  and  Beautiful^  an  essay  on 
the  Berkeleyan  system  of  philosophy,  and  others  on  political  sci- 
ence; Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  an  essay  on  painting;  and  Garrick, 
while  he  undertook  on  his  own  part  to  furnish  an  essay  on  acting, 
engaged  Dr.  Burney  to  contribute  an  article  on  music.  Here  was 
a great  array  of  talent  positively  engaged,  while  other  writers  of 
eminence  were  to  be  sought  for  the  various  departments  of  science. 
Goldsmith  was  to  edit  the  whole.  An  undertaking  of  this  kind, 
while  it  did  not  incessantly  task  and  exhaust  his  inventive  powers 
by  original  composition,  would  give  agreeable  and  profitable  exer- 
cise to  his  taste  and  judgment  in  selecting,  compiling,  and  arrang- 
ing, and  he  calculated  to  diffuse  over  the  whole  the  acknowledged 
graces  of  his  style. 

He  drew  up  a prospectus  of  the  plan,  which  is  said  by  Bishop 
Percy,  who  saw  it,  to  have  been  written  with  uncommon  ability, 
and  to  have  had  that  perspicuity  and  elegance  for  which  his  writ- 
ings are  remarkable.  This  paper,  unfortunately,  is  no  longer  in 
existence. 

Goldsmith’s  expectations,  always  sanguine  respecting  any  new 
plan,  were  raised  to  an  extraordinary  height  by  the  present  proj- 
ect ; and  well  they  might  be,  when  we  consider  the  powerful 
coadjutors  already  pledged.  They  were  doomed,  however,  to 
complete  disappointment.  Davies,  the  bibliopole  of  Russell 


NEGLIGENT  AUTlIOliSllLP. 


257 


Street,  lets  us  into  the  secret  of  this  failure.  “ The  booksellers,’’ 
said  he,  ‘‘  notwithstanding  they  had  a very  good  opinion  of  his 
abilities,  yet  were  startled  at  the  bulk,  importance,  and  expense 
of  so  great  an  undertaking,  the  fate  of  which  was  to  depend  upon 
the  industry  of  a man  with  whose  indolence  of  temper  and  method 
of  procrastination  they  had  long  been  acquainted.” 

Goldsmith  certainly  gave  reason  for  some  such  distrust  by  the 
heedlessness  with  which  he  conducted  his  literary  undertakings. 
Those  unfinished,  but  paid  for,  would  be  suspended  to  make  way 
for  some  job  that  was  to  provide  for  present  necessities.  Those 
thus  hastily  taken  up  would  be  as  hastily  executed,  and  the 
whole,  however  pressing,  would  be  shoved  aside  and  left  “ at  loose 
ends,”  on  some  sudden  call  to  social  enjoyment  or  recreation. 

Cradock  tells  us  that  on  one  occasion,  when  Goldsmith  was 
hard  at  work  on  his  Natural  History^  he  sent  to  Dr.  Percy  and 
himself,  entreating  them  to  finish  some  pages  of  his  work  which 
lay  upon  his  table,  and  for  which  the  press  was  urgent,  he  being 
detained  by  other  engagements  at  Windsor.  They  met  by 
appointment  at  his  chambers  in  the  Temple,  where  they  found 
everything  in  disorder,  and  costly  books  lying  scattered  about 
on  the  tables  and  on  the  floor;  many  of  the  books  on  natural 
history  which  he  had  recently  consulted  lay  open  among  un cor- 
rected proof-sheets.  The  subject  in  hand,  and  from  which  he  had 
suddenly  broken  off,  related  to  birds.  “ Do  you  know  anything 
about  birds?”  asked  Dr.  Percy,  smiling.  “Not  an  atom,”  replied 
Cradock;  “do  you?”  “ Not  1 1 I scarcely  know  a goose  from  a 
swan ; however,  let  us  try  what  we  can  do.”  They  set  to  work 
and  completed  their  friendly  task.  Goldsmith,  however,  when  he 
came  to  revise  it,  made  such  alterations  that  they  could  neither 
of  them  recognize  their  own  share.  The  engagement  at  Windsor, 
which  had  thus  caused  Goldsmith  to  break  off  suddenly  from  his 
multifarious  engagements,  was  a party  of  pleasure  with  some 
literary  ladies.  Another  anecdote  was  current,  illustrative  of  the 
carelessness  with  which  he  executed  works  requiring  accuracy  and 
research.  On  the  2 2d  of  June  he  had  received  payment  in 


258 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


advance  for  a Grecian  History  in  two  volumes,  though  only 
one  was  finished.  As  he  was  pushing  on  doggedly  at  the  second 
volume,  Gibbon,  the  historian,  called  in.  ‘^You  are  the  man  of 
all  others  I wish  to  see,’’  cried  the  poet,  glad  to  be  saved  the 
trouble  of  reference  to  his  books.  “ What  was  the  name  of  that 
Indian  king  who  gave  Alexander  the  Great  so  much  trouble?” 
“Montezuma,”  replied  Gibbon,  sportively.  The  heedless  author 
was  about  committing  the  name  to  paper  without  reflection,  when 
Gibbon  pretended  to  recollect  himself,  and  gave  the  true  name, 
Porus. 

This  story,  very  probably,  was  a sportive  exaggeration  ; but  it 
was  a multiplicity  of  anecdotes  like  this  and  the  preceding  one, 
some  true  and  some  false,  which  had  impaired  the  confidence  of 
booksellers  in  Goldsmith  as  a man  to  be  relied  on  for  a task 
requiring  wide  and  accurate  research,  and  close  and  long-continued 
application.  The  project  of  the  Universal  Dictionary,  therefore, 
met  with  no  encouragement,  and  fell  through. 

The  failure  of  this  scheme,  on  which  he  had  built  such  spacious 
hopes,  sank  deep  into  Goldsmith’s  heart.  He  was  still  further 
grieved  and  mortified  by  the  failure  of  an  effort  made  by  some 
of  his  frienfls  to  obtain  for  him  a pension  from  government. 
There  had  been  a talk  of  the  disposition  of  the  ministry  to  extend 
the  bounty  of  the  crown  to  distinguished  literary  men  in  pecuniary 
difficulty,  without  regard  to  their  political  creed  : when  the  merits 
and  claims  of  Goldsmith,  however,  were  laid  before  them,  they 
met  no  favor.  The  sin  of  sturdy  independence  lay  at  his  door. 
He  had  refused  to  become  a ministerial  hack  when  offered  a carte 
blanche  by  Parson  Scott,  the  cabinet  emissary.  The  wondering 
parson  had  left  him  in  poverty  and  garret^^^  and  there  the 

ministry  were  disposed  to  suffer  him  to  remain. 

In  the  meantime  Dr.  Beattie  comes  out  with  his  Essay  on 
Truths  and  all  the  orthodox  world  are  thrown  into  a paroxysm 
of  contagious  ecstasy.  He  is  cried  up  as  the  great  champion  of 
Christianity  against  the  attacks  of  modern  philosophers  and 
infidels ; he  is  feted  and  flattered  in  every  way.  He  receives  at 


BEATTIE'S  ESSAY  ON  TBUTIf.'' 


259 


Oxford  the  honorary  degree  of  Doctor  of  Civil  Law,  at  tlie  same 
time  with  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds.  The  King  sends  for  him,  praises 
his  Essay,  and  gives  him  a pension  of  two  hundred  pounds. 

Goldsmith  feels  more  acutely  the  denial  of  a pension  to  himself 
when  one  has  thus  been  given  unsolicited  to  a man  he  might 
without  vanity  consider  so  much  his  inferior.  He  was  not  one  to 
conceal  his  feelings.  ‘‘Here’s  such  a stir,”  said  he  one  day  at 
Thrale’s  table,  “about  a fellow  that  has  written  one  book,  and  I 
have  written  so  many  ! ” 

“Ah,  Doctor  ! ” exclaimed  Johnson,  in  one  of  his  caustic  moods, 
“ there  go  two-and-forty  sixpences,  you  know,  to  one  guinea.” 
This  is  one  of  the  cuts  at  poor  Goldsmith  in  which  Johnson  went 
contrary  to  head  and  heart  in  his  love  for  saying  what  is  called  a 
“good  thing.”  No  one  knew  better  than  himself  the  comparative 
superiority  of  the  writings  of  Goldsmith ; but  the  jingle  of  the 
sixpences  and  the  guinea  was  not  to  be  resisted. 

“ Everybody,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Thrale,  “ loves  Dr.  Beattie,  but 
Goldsmith,  who  says  he  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  so  much  applause 
as  they  all  bestow  upon  him.  Did  he  not  tell  us  so  himself,  no 
one  would  believe  he  was  so  exceedingly  ill-natured.” 

He  told  them  so  himself  because  he  was  too  open  and  unreserved 
to  disguise  his  feelings,  and  because  he  really  considered  the  praise 
lavished  on  Beattie  extravagant,  as  in  fact  it  was.  It  was  all,  of 
course,  set  down  to  sheer  envy  and  uncliaritableness.  To  add  to 
his  annoyance,  he  found  his  friend,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  joining 
in  the  universal  adulation.  He  had  painted  a full-length  portrait 
of  Beattie  decked  in  the  doctor’s  robes  in  which  he  had  figured  at 
Oxford,  with  the  Essay  on  Truth  under  his  arm  and  the  angel 
of  truth  at  his  side,  while  Voltaire  figured  as  one  of  the  demons 
of  infidelity,  sophistry,  and  falsehood,  driven  into  utter  dark- 
ness. 

Goldsmith  had  known  Voltaire  in  early  life  ; he  had  been  his 
admirer  and  his  biographer  ; he  grieved  to  find  him  receiving  such 
an  insult  from  the  classic  pencil  of  his  friend.  “It  is  unworthy 
of  you,”  said  he  to  Sir  Joshua,  “ to  debase  so  high  a genius  as 


260 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Voltaire  before  so  mean  a writer  as  Beattie.  Beattie  and  his  book 
will  be  forgotten  in  ten  years,  while  Voltaire’s  fame  will  last 
forever.  Take  care  it  does  not  perpetuate  this  picture  to  the 
shame  of  such  a man  as  you.”  This  noble  and  high-minded  rebuke 
is  the  only  instance  on  record  of  any  reproachful  words  between 
the  poet  and  the  painter ; and  we  are  happy  to  find  that  it  did 
not  destroy  the  harmony  of  their  intercourse. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Thwakted  in  the  plans  and  disappointed  in  the  hopes  which 
had  recently  cheered  and  animated  him,  Goldsmith  found  the  labor 
at  his  half-finished  tasks  doubly  irksome  from  the  consciousness 
that  the  completion  of  them  could  not  relieve  him  from  his 
pecuniary  embarrassments.  His  impaired  health,  also,  rendered 
him  less  capable  than  formerly  of  sedentary  application,  and 
continual  perplexities  disturbed  the  flow  of  thought  necessary  for 
original  composition.  He  lost  his  usual  gayety  and  good-humor, 
and  became,  at  times,  peevish  and  irritable.  Too  proud  of  spirit 
to  seek  sympathy  or  relief  from  his  friends,  for  the  pecuniary 
difficulties  he  had  brought  upon  himself  by  his  errors  and  extrava- 
gance, and  unwilling,  perhaps,  to  make  known  their  amount,  he 
buried  his  cares  and  anxieties  in  his  own  bosom,  and  endeavored 
in  company  to  keep  up  his  usual  air  of  gayety  and  unconcern. 
This  gave  his  conduct  an  appearance  of  fitfulness  and  caprice, 
varying  suddenly  from  moodiness  to  mirth,  and  from  silent  gravity 
to  shallow  laughter  ; causing  surprise  and  ridicule  in  those  who 
were  not  aware  of  the  sickness  of  heart  which  lay  beneath. 

His  poetical  reputation,  too,  was  sometimes  a disadvantage  to 
him ; it  drew  upon  him  a notoriety  which  he  was  not  always  in 
the  mood  or  the  vein  to  act  up  to.  “ Good  heavens,  Mr.  Foote,” 
exclaimed  an  actress  at  the  Hay  market  Theatre,  “ what  a hum- 
drum kind  of  man  Dr.  Goldsmith  appears  in  our  green-room 
compared  with  the  figure  he  makes  in  his  poetry  ! ” “ The  reason 


THE  POET  AT  VAUXHALL. 


261 


of  that,  madam, replied  Foote,  “is  because  the  Muses  are  better 
company  than  the  players/’ 

Beauclerc’s  letters  to  his  friend,  Lord  Charlemont,  who  was 
absent  in  Ireland,  give  us  now  and  then  an  indication  of  the 
whereabout  of  the  poet  during  the  present  year.  “I  have  been 
but  once  to  the  club  since  you  left  England,”  wTites  he ; “ we 
were  entertained,  as  usual,  with  Goldsmith’s  absurdity.”  With 
Beauclerc  everything  was  absurd  that  was  not  polished  and 
pointed.  In  another  letter  he  threatens,  unless  Lord  Charlemont 
returns  to  England,  to  bring  over  the  whole  club,  and  let  them  loose 
upon  him  to  drive  him  home  by  their  peculiar  habits  of  annoyance  ; 
— Johnson  shall  spoil  his  books  ; Goldsmith  shall  pull  his  Jlowers  ; 
and  last,  and  most  intolerable  of  all,  Boswell  shall  — talk  to  him. 
It  would  appear  that  the  poet,  who  had  a passion  for  fiowws,  was 
apt  to  pass  much  of  his  time  in  the  garden  when  on  a visit  to  a 
country-seat,  much  to  the  detriment  of  the  flow^er-beds  and  the 
despair  of  the  gardener. 

The  summer  w’^ore  heavily  away  with  Goldsmith.  He  had  not 
his  usual  solace  of  a country  retreat ; his  health  was  impaired  and 
his  spirits  depressed.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  who  perceived  the 
state  of  his  mind,  kindly  gave  him  much  of  his  company.  In  the 
course  of  their  interchange  of  thought.  Goldsmith  suggested  to  him 
the  story  of  Ugolino,  as  a subject  for  his  pencil.  The  painting 
founded  on  it  remains  a memento  of  their  friendship. 

On  the  4th  of  August  we  find  them  together  at  Vauxhall,  at 
that  time  a place  in  high  vogue,  and  which  had  once  been  to  Gold- 
smith a scene  of  Oriental  splendor  and  delight.  We  have,  in  fact, 
in  the  Citizen  of  the  World,  a picture  of  it  as  it  had  struck  him 
in  former  years  and  in  his  happier  moods.  “Upon  entering  the 
gardens,”  says  the  Chinese  philosopher,  “ I found  every  sense  oc- 
cupied with  more  than  expected  pleasure  : the  lights  everywhere 
glimmering  through  the  scarcely  moving  trees ; the  full-bodied  con- 
cert bursting  on  the  stillness  of  the  night ; the  natural  concert  of 
the  birds  in  the  more  retired  part  of  the  grove,  vying  wdth  that 
which  w^as  formed  by  art ; the  company  gayly  dressed,  looking  sat- 


262 


OLIVER  GOLBSMITH. 


isfaction,  and  the  tables  spread  with  various  delicacies,  — all  con- 
spired to  fill  my  imagination  with  the  visionary  happiness  of  the 
Arabian  law-giver,  and  lifted  me  into  an  ecstasy  of  admira- 
tion.’^ ^ 

Everything  now,  however,  is  seen  with  different  eyes ; with  him 
it  is  dissipation  without  pleasure ; and  he  finds  it  impossible  any 
longer,  by  mingling  in  the  gay  and  giddy  throng  of  apparently 
prosperous  and  happy  beings,  to  escape  from  the  carking  care 
which  is  clinging  to  his  heart. 

His  kind  friend,  Cradock,  came  up  to  town  towards  autumn, 
when  all  the  fashionable  world  was  in  the  country,  to  give  his  wife 
the  benefit  of  a skilful  dentist.  He  took  lodgings  in  Norfolk 
Street,  to  be  in  Goldsmith’s  neighborhood,  and  passed  most  of  his 
mornings  with  him.  “ I found  him,”  he  says,  “ much  altered  and 
at  times  very  low.  He  wished  me  to  look  over  and  revise  some  of 
his  works ; but,  with  a select  friend  or  two,  I was  more  pressing 
that  he  should  publish  by  subscription  his  two  celebrated  poems 
of  the  Traveller  and  the  Deserted  Village^  with  notes.”  The  idea 
of  Cradock  was,  that  the  subscription  would  enable  wealthy  per- 
sons, favorable  to  Goldsmith,  to  contribute  to  his  pecuniary  relief 
without  wounding  his  pride.  “ Goldsmith,”  said  he,  “ readily  gave 
up  to  me  his  private  copies,  and  said,  ‘ Pray  do  what  you  please 
with  them.’  But  whilst  he  sat  near  me,  he  rather  submitted  to 
than  encouraged  my  zealous  proceedings. 

“ I one  morning  called  upon  him,  however,  and  found  him  infi- 
nitely better  than  I had  expected ; and,  in  a kind  of  exulting  style, 
he  exclaimed,  ‘ Here  are  some  of  the  best  of  my  prose  writings ; 
/ have  been  hard  at  work  since  midnight^  and  I desire  you  to 
examine  them.’  ‘These,’  said  I,  ‘are  excellent  indeed.’  ‘They 
are,’  replied  he,  ‘intended  as  an  introduction  to  a body  of  arts 
and  sciences.’  ” 

Poor  Goldsmith  was,  in  fact,  gathering  together  the  fragments 
of  his  shipwreck ; the  notes  and  essays,  and  memoranda  collected 


1 Citizen  of  the  World.  Letter  LXXI. 


A rABTIJVG  SCENE. 


263 


for  his  dictionary,  and  proposed  to  found  on  them  a work  in 
two  volumes,  to  be  entitled  A Purvey  of  Experimental  Phi- 
losopjhy. 

The  plan  of  the  subscription  came  to  nothing,  and  the  projected 
survey  never  was  executed.  The  head  might  yet  devise,  but  the 
heart  was  failing  him ; his  talent  at  hoping,  which  gave  him  buoy- 
ancy to  carry  out  his  enterprises,  was  almost  at  an  end. 

Cradock’s  farewell-scene  with  him  is  told  in  a simple  but 
touching  manner. 

“ The  day  before  I was  to  set  out  for  Leicestershire,  I insisted 
upon  his  dining  with  us.  He  replied,  ‘ I will,  but  on  one  condi- 
tion, that  you  will  not  ask  me  to  eat  anything.’  ‘Nay,’  said  I, 
‘ this  answer  is  absolutely  unkind,  for  I had  hoped,  as  we  are  sup- 
plied from  the  Crown  and  Anchor,  that  you  would  have  named 
something  you  might  have  relished.’  ‘Well,’ was  the  reply,  ‘if 
you  will  but  explain  it  to  Mrs.  Cradock,  I will  certainly  wait  upon 
you.’ 

“The  Doctor  found,  as  usual,  at  my  apartments,  newspapers 
and  pamphlets,  and  with  a pen  and  ink  he  amused  himself  as  well 
as  he  could.  I had  ordered  from  the  tavern  some  fish,  a roasted 
joint  of  lamb,  and  a tart ; and  the  Doctor  either  sat  down  or 
walked  about  just  as  he  pleased.  After  dinner  he  took  some  wine 
with  biscuits ; but  I was  obliged  soon  to  leave  him  for  a while,  as 
I had  matters  to  settle  prior  to  my  next  day’s  journey.  On  my 
return,  coffee  was  ready,  and  the  Doctor  appeared  more  cheerful 
(for  Mrs.  Cradock  was  always  rather  a favorite  with  him),  and  in 
the  evening  he  endeavored  to  talk  and  remark  as  usual,  but  all  was 
forced.  He  stayed  till  midnight,  and  I insisted  on  seeing  him  safe 
home,  and  we  most  cordially  shook  hands  at  the  Temple-gate.” 
Cradock  little  thought  that  this  was.  to  be  their  final  parting.  He 
looked  back  to  it  with  mournful  recollections  in  after-years,  and 
lamented  that  he  had  not  remained  longer  in  town,  at  every  incon- 
venience, to  solace  the  poor  broken-spirited  poet. 

The  latter  continued  in  town  all  the  autumn.  At  the  opening 
of  the  Opera-House,  on  the  20th  of  November,  Mrs.  Yates,  an 


264 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


actress  whom  he  held  in  great  esteem,  delivered  a poetical  exordium 
of  his  composition.  Beauclerc,  in  a letter  to  Lord  Charlemont,  i 
pronounced  it  very  good,  and  predicted  that  it  would  soon  be  in  all  j 
the  papers.  It  does  not  appear,  however,  to  have  been  ever  pub-  | 
lished.  In  his  fitful  state  of  mind  Goldsmith  may  have  taken  no  ! 
c'are  about  it,  and  thus  it  has  been  lost  to  the  world,  although  it  j 
was  received  with  great  applause  by  a crowded  and  brilliant  ; 
audience. 

A gleam  of  sunshine  breaks  through  the  gloom  that  was  gather- 
ing  over  the  poet.  Towards  the  end  of  the  year  he  receives  another 
Christmas  invitation  to  Barton.  A country  Christmas  ! — with  all 
the  cordiality  of  the  fireside  circle,  and  the  joyous  revelry  of  the 
oaken  hall, — what  a contrast  to  the  loneliness  of  a bachelor’s  cham- 
bers in  the  Temple  ! It  is  not  to  be  resisted.  But  how  is  poor 
Goldsmith  to  raise  the  ways  and  means'?  His  purse  is  empty;  his 
booksellers  are  already  in  advance  to  him.  As  a last  resource,  he 
applies  to  Garrick.  Their  mutual  intimacy  at  Barton  may  have  i 
suggested  him  as  an  alternative.  The  old  loan  of  forty  pounds  | 

has  never  been  paid  ; and  Hewbery’s  note,  pledged  as  a security,  i 

has  never  been  taken  up.  An  additional  loan  of  sixty  pounds  is 
now  asked  for,  thus  increasing  the  loan  to  one  hundred ; to  insure 
the  payment,  he  now  offers,  besides  Newbery’s  note,  the  transfer 
of  the  comedy  of  the  Good-natured  Man  to  ’Drury  Lane,  with  such 
alterations  as  Garrick  may  suggest.  Garrick,  in  reply,  evades  the 
offer  of  the  altered  comedy,  alludes  significantly  to  a new  one  which 
Goldsmith  had  talked  of  writing  for  him,  and  offers  to  furnish  the  i 
money  required  on  his  own  acceptance.  ’ 

The  reply  of  Goldsmith  bespeaks  a heart  brimful  of  gratitude  j 
and  overflowing  with  fond  anticipations  of  Barton  and  the  smiles 
of  its  fair  residents.  “My  dear  friend,”  writes  he,  “I  thank  you. 

I wish  I could  do  something  to  serve  you.  I shall  have  a comedy 
for  you  in  a season,  or  tw'o  at  farthest,  that  I believe  will  be  worth 
your  acceptance,  for  I fancy  I will  make  it  a fine  thing.  You 
shall  have  the  refusal.  ...  I will  draw  upon  you  one  month 
after  date  for  sixty  pounds,  and  your  acceptance  will  be  ready 


A RETURN  TO  DRUDGERY, 


265 


money,  part  of  which  I want  to  go  down  to  Barton  with.  May 
God  preserve  my  honest  little  man,  for  he  has  my  heart.  Ever, 

“Oliver  Goldsmith.” 

And  having  thus  scrambled  together  a little  pocket-money,  by 
hard  contrivance,  poor  Goldsmith  turns  his  back  upon  care  and 
trouble,  and  Temple  quarters,  to  forget  for  a time  his  desolate 
bachelorhood  in  the  family  circle  and  a Christmas  fireside  at 
Barton. 


CHAPTER  XLIY. 

The  Barton  festivities  are  over ; Christmas,  with  all  its  home- 
felt  revelry  of  the  heart,  has  passed  like  a dream ; the  Jessamy 
Bride  has  beamed  her  last  smile  upon  the  poor  poet,  and  the  early 
part  of  1774  finds  him  in  his  now  dreary  bachelor  abode  in  the 
Temple,  toiling  fitfully  and  hopelessly  at  a multiplicity  of  tasks. 
His  Animated  Nature.^  so  long  delayed,  so  often  interrupted,  is  at 
length  announced  for  publication,  though  it  has  yet  to  receive  a 
few  finishing  touches.  He  is  preparing  a third  History  of 
England.^  to  be  compressed  and  condensed  in  one  volume,  for  the 
use  of  schools.  He  is  revising  his  Inquiry  into  Polite  Learning^ 
for  which  he  receives  the  pittance  of  five  guineas,  much  needed  in 
his  present  scantiness  of  purse ; he  is  arranging  his  Survey  of 
Experimental  Fhilosoqdiy^  and  he  is  translating  the  Comic  Ro- 
mance of  Scarron.  Such  is  a part  of  the  various  labors  of  a drudg- 
ing, depressing  kind,  by  which  his  head  is  made  weary  and  his 
heart  faint.  “If  there  is  a mental  drudgery,”  says  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  “ which  lowers  the  spirits  and  lacerates  the  nerves,  like  the 
toil  of  a slave,  it  is  that  which  is  exacted  by  literary  composition, 
when  the  heart  is  not  in  unison  with  the  work  upon  which  the 
head  is  employed.  Add  to  the  unhappy  author ^s  task  sickness, 
sorrow,  or  the  pressure  of  unfavorable  circumstances,  and  the 
labor  of  the  bondsman  becomes  light  in  comparison.”  Goldsmith 
again  makes  an  effort  to  rally  his  spirits  by  going  into  gay  society. 


266 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“Our  club/’  writes  Beauclerc  to  Chaiiemont,  on  the  12tli  of  Feb- 
ruary, “ has  dwindled  away  to  nothing.  Sir  Joshua  and  Gold- 
smith have  got  into  such  a round  of  pleasures  that  they  have  no 
time.”  This  shows  how  little  Beauclerc  was  the  companion  of  the 
poet’s  mind,  or  could  judge  of  him  below  the  surface.  Reynolds, 
the  kind  participator  in  joyless  dissipation,  could  have  told  a dif- 
ferent story  of  his  companion’s  heart-sick  gayety. 

In  this  forced  mood  Goldsmith  gave  entertainments  in  his 
chambers  in  the  Temple ; the  last  of  which  was  a dinner  to  John- 
son, Reynolds,  and  others  of  his  intimates,  who  partook  with 
sorrow  and  reluctance  of  hi«  imprudent  hospitality.  The  first 
course  vexed  them  by  its  needless  profusion.  When  a second, 
equally  extravagant,  was  served  up,  Johnson  and  Reynolds  declined 
to  partake  of  it ; the  rest  of  the  company,  understanding  their 
motives,  followed  their  example,  and  the  dishes  went  from  the 
table  untasted.  Goldsmith  felt  sensibly  this  silent  and  well- 
intended  rebuke. 

The  gayeties  of  society,  however,  cannot  medicine  for  any  length 
of  time  a mind  diseased.  Wearied  by  the  distractions  and  harassed 
by  the  expenses  of  a town-life,  which  he  had  not  the  discretion  to 
regulate,  Goldsmitli  took  the  resolution,  too  tardily  adopted,  of 
retiring  to  the  serene  quiet,  and  cheap  and  healthful  pleasures 
of  the  country,  and  of  passing  only  two  months  of  the  year  in 
London.  He  accordingly  made  arrangements  to  sell  his  right  in 
the  Temple  chambers,  and  in  the  month  of  March  retired  to  his 
country  quarters  at  Hyde,  there  to  devote  himself  to  toil.  At  this 
dispirited  juncture,  when  inspiration  seemed  to  be  at  an  end,  and 
the  poetic  fire  extinguished,  a spark  fell  on  his  combustible  imagi- 
nation and  set  it  in  a blaze. 

He  belonged  to  a temporary  association  of  men  of  talent,  some 
of  them  members  of  the  Literary  Club,  who  dined  together  occa- 
sionally at  the  St.  James’s  Coffee-House.  At  these  dinners,  as 
usual,  he  was  one  of  the  last  to  arrive.  On  one  occasion,  when  he 
was  more  dilatory  than  usual,  a whim  seized  the  company  to 
write  epitaphs  on  him,  as  “ The  late  Dr.  Goldsmith,”  and  several 


''RETALIATION. 


267 


were  thrown  off  in  a playful  vein,  hitting  off  his  peculiarities. 
The  only  one  extant  was  written  by  Garrick,  and  has  been  pre- 
served, very  probably,  by  its  pungency  : — 

“ Here  lies  poet  Goldsmith,  for  shortness  called  Noll, 

Who  wrote  like  an  angel,  but  talked  like  poor  poll.” 

Goldsmith  did  not  relish  the  sarcasm,  especially  as  coming  from 
such  a quarter.  He  was  not  very  ready  at  repartee ; but  he  took 
his  time,  and  in  the  interval  of  his  various  tasks  concocted  a series 
of  epigrammatic  sketches,  under  the  title  of  Retaliation,  in  which 
the  characters  of  his  distinguished  intimates  were  admirably  hit 
off,  with  a mixture  of  generous  praise  and  good-humored  raillery. 
In  fact  the  poem,  for  its  graphic  truth,  its  nice  discrimination,  its 
terse  good  sense,  and  its  shrewd  knowledge  of  the  world,  must 
have  electrified  the  club  almost  as  much  as  the  first  appearance  of 
The  Traveller,  and  let  them  still  deeper  into  the  character  and 
talents  of  the  man  they  had  been  accustomed  to  consider  as  their 
butt.  Retaliation,  in  a word,  closed  his  accounts  with  the  club, 
and  balanced  all  his  previous  deficiencies. 

The  portrait  of  David  Garrick  is  one  of  the  most  elaborate  in 
the  poem.  When  the  poet  came  to  touch  it  off,  he  had  some  lurk- 
ing piques  to  gratify,  which  the  recent  attack  had  revived.  He 
may  have  forgotten  David’s  cavalier  treatment  of  him,  in  the 
early  days  of  his  comparative  obscurity ; he  may  have  forgiven 
his  refusal  of  his  plays ; but  Garrick  had  been  capricious  in  his 
conduct  in  the  times  of  their  recent  intercourse  : sometimes  treat- 
ing him  with  gross  familiarity,  at  other  times  affecting  dignity 
and  reserve,  and  assuming  airs  of  superiority ; frequently  he  had 
been  facetious  and  witty  in  company  at  his  expense,  and  lastly  he 
had  been  guilty  of  the  couplet  just  quoted.  Goldsmith,  therefore, 
touched  off  the  lights  and  shadows  of  his  character  with  a free 
hand,  and  at  the  same  time  gave  a side-hit  at  his  old  rival, 
Kelly,  and  his  critical  persecutor,  Kenrick,  in  making  them  syco- 
phantic satellites  of  the  actor.  Goldsmith,  however,  was  void  of 
gall  even  in  his  revenge,  and  his  very  satire  was  more  humorous 
than  caustic : — 


268 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


“ Here  lies  David  Garrick,  describe  him  who  can, 

An  abridgment  of  all  that  was  pleasant  in  man  ; 

As  an  actor,  confess’d  without  rival  to  shine  ; 

As  a wit,  if  not  first,  in  the  very  first  line : 

Yet,  with  talents  like  these,  and  an  excellent  heart. 

The  man  had  his  failings,  a dupe  to  his  art. 

Like  an  ill-judging  beauty,  his  colors  he  spread. 

And  beplaster’d  with  rouge  his  own  natural  red. 

On  the  stage  he  was  natural,  simple,  affecting ; 

’Twas  only  that  when  he  was  off  he  was  acting. 

With  no  reason  on  earth  to  go  out  of  his  way. 

He  turn’d  and  he  varied  full  ten  times  a day : 

Though  secure  of  our  hearts,  yet  confoundedly  sick 
If  they  were  not  his  own  by  finessing  and  trick ; 

He  cast  off  his  friends  as  a huntsman  his  pack. 

For  he  knew,  when  he  pleased,  he  could  whistle  them  back. 
Of  praise  a mere  glutton,  he  swallow’d  what  came. 

And  the  puff  of  a dunce  he  mistook  it  for  fame ; 

Till  his  relish,  grown  callous  almost  to  disease. 

Who  pepper’d  the  highest  was  surest  to  please. 

But  let  us  be  candid,  and  speak  out  our  mind. 

If  dunces  applauded,  he  paid  them  in  kind. 

Ye  Kenricks,  ye  Kellys,  and  Woodfalls  so  grave. 

What  a commerce  was  yours,  while  you  got  and  you  gave  ! 
How  did  Grub  Street  reecho  the  shouts  that  you  raised 
While  he  was  be-Rosciused  and  you  were  be-praised  ! 

But  peace  to  his  spirit,  wherever  it  flies. 

To  act  as  an  angel  and  mix  with  the  skies  : 

Those  poets  who  owe  their  best  fame  to  his  skill. 

Shall  still  be  his  flatterers,  go  where  he  will ; 

Old  Shakspeare  receive  him  with  praise  and  with  love. 

And  Beaumonts  and  Bens  be  his  Kellys  above.” 


This  portion  of  Retaliation  soon  brought  a retort  from  Garrick, 
which  we  insert,  as  giving  something  of  a likeness  of  Goldsmith, 
though  in  broad  caricature  : — 

“ Here,  Hermes,  says  Jove,  who  with  nectar  was  mellow, 

Go  fetch  me  some  clay  — I will  make  an  odd  fellow  ; 

Right  and  wrong  shall  be  jumbled,  much  gold  and  some  dross, 
Without  cause  be  he  pleased,  without  cause  be  he  cross  ; 


GOLDSMITH  NO  RAKE. 


269 


Be  sure,  as  I work,  to  throw  in  contradictions, 

A great  love  of  truth,  yet  a mind  turn’d  to  fictions  ; 

Now  mix  these  ingredients,  which,  warm’d  in  the  baking, 
Turn’d  to  learning  and  gaming^  religion  and  raking. 

With  the  love  of  a wench  let  his  writings  be  chaste  ; 

Tip  his  tongue  with  strange  matter,  his  lips  with  fine  taste 
That  the  rake  and  the  poet  o’er  all  may  prevail, 

Set  fire  to  the  head  and  set  fire  to  the  tail ; 

For  the  joy  of  each  sex  on  the  world  I’ll  bestow  it. 

This  scholar,  rake,  Christian,  dupe,  gamester,  and  poet. 

Though  a mixture  so  odd,  he  shall  merit  great  fame. 

And  among  brother  mortals  be  Goldsmith  his  name  ; 

When  on  earth  this  strange  meteor  no  more  shall  appear. 

You,  Hermes.,  shall  fetch  him,  to  make  us  sport  here.” 

The  charge  of  raking,  so  repeatedly  advanced  in  the  foregoing 
lines,  must  be  considered  a sportive  one,  founded,  perhaps,  o-n  an 
incident  or  two  within  Garrick’s  knowledge,  but  not  borne  out  by 
the  course  of  Goldsmith’s  life.  He  seems  to  have  had  a tender 
sentiment  for  the  sex,  but  perfectly  free  from  libertinism.  Neither 
was  he  an  habitual  gamester.  The  strictest  scrutiny  has  detected 
no  settled  vice  of  the  kind.  He  was  fond  of  a game  of  cards,  but 
an  unskilful  and  careless  player.  Cards  in  those  days  were  uni- 
versally introduced  into  society.  High  play  was,  in  fact,  a fashion- 
able amusement,  as  at  one  time  was  deep  drinking ; and  a man  might 
occasionally  lose  large  sums,  and  be  beguiled  into  deep  potations, 
without  incurring  the  character  of  a gamester  or  a drunkard. 
Poor  Goldsmith,  on  his  advent  into  high  society,  assumed  fine 
notions  with  fine  clothes ; he  was  thrown  occasionally  among  high 
players,  men  of  fortune  who  could  sport  their  cool  hundred  as  care- 
lessly as  his  early  comrades  at  Ballymahon  could  their  half-crowns. 
Being  at  all  times  magnificent  in  money -matters,  he  may  have  played 
with  them  in  their  own  way,  without  considering  that  what  was 
sport  to  them  to  him  was  ruin.  Indeed,  part  of  his  financial  em- 
barrassments may  have  arisen  from  losses  of  the  kind,  incurred 
inadvertently,  not  in  the  indulgence  of  a habit.  I do  not  believe 
Goldsmith  to  have  deserved  the  name  of  gamester,”  said  one  of  his 
contemporaries  ; ‘‘he  liked  cards  very  well,  as  other  people  do,  and 


270 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


lost  and  won  occasionally,  but  as  far  as  I saw  or  heard,  and  I had 
many  opportunities  of  hearing,  never  any  considerable  sum.  If  he 
gamed  with  any  one,  it  was  probably  with  Beauclerc,  but  I do  not 
know  that  such  was  the  case.” 

Retaliation,  as  we  have  already  observed,  was  thrown  off  in 
parts,  at  intervals,  and  was  never  completed.  Some  characters, 
originally  intended  to  be  introduced,  remained  unattempted  ; others 
were  but  partially  sketched  — such  as  the  one  of  Reynolds,  the 
friend  of  his  heart,  and  which  he  commenced  with  a felicity  which 
makes  us  regret  that  it  should  remain  unfinished. 

“ Here  Reynolds  is  laid,  and  to  tell  you  my  mind, 

He  has  not  left  a wiser  or  better  behind. 

His  pencil  was  striking,  resistless,  and  grand  ; 

His  manners  were  gentle,  complying,  and  bland  ; 

Still  born  to  improve  us  in  every  part. 

His  pencil  our  faces,  his  manners  our  heart. 

To  coxcombs  averse,  yet  most  civilly  steering. 

When  they  judged  without  skill  he  was  still  hard  of  hearing : 
When  they  talked  of  their  Raphaels,  Correggios,  and  stuff. 

He  shifted  his  trumpet  and  only  took  snuff. 

By  flattery  unspoiled” 

The  friendly  portrait  stood  unfinished  on  the  easel ; the  hand  of 
the  artist  had  failed  ! An  access  of  a local  complaint,  under  which 
he  had  suffered  for  some  time  past,  added  to  a general  prostration 
of  health,  brought  Goldsmith  back  to  town  before  he  had  well 
settled  himself  in  the  country.  The  local  complaint  subsided,  but 
was  followed  by  a low  nervous  fever.  He  was  not  aware  of  his 
critical  situation,  and  intended  to  be  at  the  club  on  the  25th  of 
March,  on  which  occasion  Charles  Fox,  Sir  Charles  Bunbury  (one 
of  the  Horneck  connection),  and  two  other  new  members  were 
to  be  present.  In  the  afternoon,  however,  he  felt  so  unwell  as  to 
take  to  his  bed,  and  his  symptoms  soon  acquired  sufficient  force  to 
keep  him  there.  His  malady  fluctuated  for  several  days,  and  hopes 
were  entertained  of  his  recovery,  but  they  proved  fallacious.  He 
had  skilful  medical  aid  and  faithful  nursing,  but  he  would  not 
follow  the  advice  of  his  physicians,  and  persisted  in  the  use  of 


DEATH, 


271 


James’s  powders,  which  he  had  once  found  beneficial,  but  which 
were  now  injurious  to  him.  His  appetite  was  gone,  his  strength 
failed  him,  but  his  mind  remained  clear,  and  was  perhaps  too  active 
for  his  frame.  Anxieties  and  disappointments  which  had  pre- 
viously sapped  his  constitution,  doubtless  aggravated  his  present 
complaint  and  rendered  him  sleepless.  In  reply  to  an  inquiry  of 
his  physician,  he  acknowledged  that  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease.  This 
was  his  last  reply  : he  was  too  weak  to  talk,  and  in  general  took 
no  notice  of  what  was  said  to  him.  He  sank  at  last  into  a deep 
sleep,  and  it  was  hoped  a favorable  crisis  had  arrived.  He  awoke, 
however,  in  strong  convulsions,  which  continued  without  intermis- 
sion until  he  expired,  oil  the  4th  of  April,  at  five  o’clock  in  the 
morning ; being  in  the  forty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 

His  death  was  a shock  to  the  literary  world,  and  a deep  afflic- 
tion to  a wide  circle  of  intimates  and  friends ; for,  with  all  his 
foibles  and  peculiarities,  he  was  fully  as  much  beloved  as  he  was 
admired.  Burke,  on  hearing  the  news,  burst  into  tears.  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds  threw  by  his  pencil  for  the  day,  and  grieved  more 
than  he  had  done  in  times  of  great  family  distress.  I was 
abroad  at  the  time  of  his  death,”  writes  Dr.  M’Donnell,  the  youth 
whom  when  in  distress  he  had  employed  as  an  amanuensis,  “ and 
I wept  bitterly  when  the  intelligence  first  reached  me.  A blank 
came  over  my  heart  as  if  I had  lost  one  of  my  nearest  relatives,  and 
was  followed  for  some  days  by  a feeling  of  despondency.”  John- 
son felt  the  blow  deeply  and  gloomily.  In  writing  some  time 
afterwards  to  Boswell,  he  observed,  ‘‘  Of  poor  Dr.  Goldsmith  there 
is  little  to*‘be  told  more  than  the  papers  have  made  public.  He 
died  of  a fever,  made,  I am  afraid,  more  violent  by  uneasi- 
ness of  mind.  His  debts  began  to  be  heavy,  and  all  his  resources 
were  exhausted.  Sir  Joshua  is  of  opinion  that  he  owed  no  less 
than  two  thousand  pounds.  Was  ever  poet  so  trusted  before?” 

Among  his  debts  were  seventy-nine  pounds  due  to  his  tailor,  Mr. 
William  Filby,  from  whom  he  had  received  a new  suit  but  a few  days 
before  his  death.  “My  father,”  said  the  younger  Filby,  “though 
a loser  to  that  amount,  attributed  no  blame  to  Goldsmith  ; he  had 


272 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITIL 


oeen  a good  customer,  and,  had  he  lived,  would  have  paid  every 
farthing/’  Others  of  his  tradespeople  evinced  the  same  confidence 
in  his  integrity,  notwithstanding  his  heedlessness.  Two  sister  mil- 
liners in  Temple  Lane,  who  had  been  accustomed  to  deal  with  him, 
were  concerned  when  told,  some  time  before  his  death,  of  his  pecu- 
niary embarrassments.  “ Oh,  sir,”  said  they  to  Mr.  Cradock, 
“ sooner  persuade  him  to  let  us  work  for  him  gratis  than  apply 
to  any  other;  we  are  sure  he  will  pay  us  when  he  can.” 

On  the  stairs  of  his  apartment  there  was  the  lamentation  of  the 
old  and  infirm,  and  the  sobbing  of  women ; poor  objects  of  his 
charity,  to  whom  he  had  never  turned  a deaf  ear,  even  when 
struggling  himself  with  poverty. 

But  there  was  one  mourner  whose  enthusiasm  for  his  memory, 
could  it  have  been  foreseen,  might  have  soothed  the  bitterness  of 
death.  After  the  coffin  had  been  screwed  down,  a lock  of  his  hair 
was  requested  for  a lady,  a particular  friend,  who  wished  to 
preserve  it  as  a remembrance.  It  was  the  beautiful  Mary 
Horneck  — the  Jessamy  Bride.  The  coffin  was  opened  again, 
and  a lock  of  hair  cut  off ; which  she  treasured  to  her  dying  day. 
Poor  Goldsmith  ! could  he  have  foreseen  that  such  a memorial  of 
him  was  to  be  thus  chelished ! 

One  word  more  concerning  this  lady,  to  whom  we  have  so  often 
ventured  to  advert.  She  survived  almost  to  the  present  day. 
Hazlitt  met  her  at  Northcote’s  painting-room,  about  twenty  years 
since,  as  Mrs.  Gwyn,  the  widow  of  a General  Gwyn  of  the  army. 
She  was  at  that  time  upwards  of  seventy  years  of  age.  Still,  he 
said,  she  was  beautiful,  beautiful  even  in  years.  After  she  was 
gone,  Hazlitt  remarked  how  handsome  she  still  was.  “I  do  not 
know,”  said  Northcote,  why  she  is  so  kind  as  to  come  to  see  me, 
except  that  I am  the  last  link  in  the  chain  that  connects  her  with 
all  those  she  most  esteemed  when  young  — Johnson,  Reynolds, 
Goldsmith  — and  remind  her  of  the  most  delightful  period  of  her 
life.”  “ Not  only  so,”  observed  Hazlitt,  “but  you  remember  what 
she  was  at  twenty;  and  you  thus  bring  back  to  her  the  triumphs 
of  her  youth  — that  pride  of  beauty,  which  must  be  the  more 


THE  FUNERAL, 


273 


fondly  cherished  as  it  has  no  external  vouchers,  and  lives  chiefly 
in  the  bosom  of  its  once  lovely  possessor.  In  lier,  however,  the 
Graces  had  triumphed  over  time  j she  was  one  of  Ninon  de 
I’Enclos’s  people,  of  the  last  of  the  immortals.  I could  almost 
fancy  the  sliade  of  Goldsmith  in  the  room,  looking  round  with 
complacency.” 

The  Jessamy  Bride  survived  her  sister  upwards  of  forty  years, 
and  died  in  1840,  within  a few  days  of  completing  her  eighty- 
eighth  year.  She  had  gone  through  all  the  stages  of  life,”  says 
Northcote,  “ and  had  lent  a grace  to  each.”  However  gayly  she 
may  have  sported  with  the  half-concealed  admiration  of  the  poor 
awkward  poet  in  the  heyday  of  her  youth  and  beauty,  and  how- 
ever much  it  may  have  been  made  a subject  of  teasing  by  her 
youthful  companions,  she  evidently  prided  herself  in  after-years 
upon  having  been  an  object  of  his  affectionate  regard ; it  certainly 
rendered  her  interesting  throughout  life  in  the  eyes  of  his  admirers, 
and  has  hung  a poetical  wreath  above  her  grave. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

In  the  warm  feeling  of  the  moment,  while  the  remains  of  the 
. poet  were  scarce  cold,  it  was  determined  by  his  friends  to  honor 
them  by  a public  funeral  and  a tomb  in  Westminster  Abbey.  His 
very  pall-bearers  were  designated : Lord  Shelburne,  Lord  Lowth, 
Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  ; the  Hon.  Mr.  Beauclerc,  Mr.  Burke,  and 
David  Garrick.  This  feeling  cooled  down,  however,  when  it  was 
discovered  that  he  died  in  debt,  and  had  not  left  wherewithal  to 
pay  for  such  expensive  obsequies.  Five  days  after  his  death, 
therefore,  at  five  o’clock  of  Saturday  evening,  the  9th  of  April,  he 
was  privately  interred  in  the  burying-groiind  of  the  Temple 
Church ; a few  persons  attending  as  mourners,  among  whom  we 
do  not  find  specified  any  of  his  peculiar  and  distinguished  friends. 
The  chief  mourner  was  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds’s  nephew.  Palmer 
afterwards  Dean  of  Cashel.  One  person,  however,  from  whom  it 


274 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


was  but  little  to  be  expected,  attended  the  funeral  and  evinced 
real  sorrow  on  the  occasion.  This  was  Hugh  Kelly,  once  the 
dramatic  rival  of  the  deceased,  and  often,  it  is  said,  his  anony- 
mous assailant  in  the  newspapers.  If  he  had  really  been  guilty 
of  this  basest  of  literary  offences,  he  was  punished  by  the  stings 
of  remorse,  for  we  are  told  that  he  shed  bitter  tears  over  the 
grave  of  the  man  he  had  injured.  His  tardy  atonement  only 
provoked  the  lash  of  some  unknown  satirist,  as  the  following  lines 
will  show  : — 

“ Hence  Kelly,  who  years,  without  honor  or  shame, 

Had  been  sticking  his  bodkin  in  Oliver’s  fame, 

Who  thought,  like  the  Tartar,  by  this  to  inherit 
His  genius,  his  learning,  simplicity,  spirit ; 

Now  sets  every  feature  to  weep  o’er  his  fate, 

And  acts  as  a mourner  to  blubber  in  state.” 

One  base  wretch  deserves  to  be  mentioned,  the  reptile  Kenrick, 
who,  after  having  repeatedly  slandered  Goldsmith,  while  living, 
had  the  audacity  to  insult  his  memory  when  dead.  The  following 
distich  is  sufficient  to  show  his  malignancy,  and  to  hold  him  up 
to  execration  : — 

“ By  his  own  art,  who  justly  died, 

A blund’ring,  artless  suicide  : 

Share,  earthworms,  share,  since  now  he’s  dead. 

His  megrim,  maggot-bitten  head.” 

This  scurrilous  epitaph  produced  a burst  of  public  indignation, 
that  awed  for  a time  even  the  infamous  Kenrick  into  silence.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  press  teemed  with  tributes  in  verse  and  prose 
to  the  memory  of  the  deceased;  all  evincing  the  mingled  feeling 
of  admiration  for  the  author  and  affection  for  the  man. 

Not  long  after  his  death  the  Literary  Club  set  on  foot  a sub- 
scription, and  raised  a fund  to  erect  a monument  to  his  memory, 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  It  was  executed  by  Nollekens,  and  con- 
sisted simply  of  a bust  of  the  poet  in  profile,  in  high  relief,  in  a 
medallion,  and  was  placed  in  the  area  of  a pointed  arch,  over  the 
south  door  in  Poets’  Corner,  between  the  monum.ents  of  Gay  and 


EPITA  Pir. 


275 


the  Duke  of  Argyle.  Johnson  furnished  a Latin  epitaph,  wliicli 
was  read  at  the  table  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  where  several 
members  of  the  club  and  other  friends  of  the  deceased  were 
present.  Though  considered  by  them  a masterly  composition, 
they  thought  the  literary  character  of  the  poet  not  defined  with 
sufficient  exactness,  and  they  preferred  that  the  epitaph  should  be 
in  English  rather  than  Latin,  as  “the  memory  of  so  eminent 
an  English  writer  ought  to  be  perpetuated  in  the  language  to 
which  his  works  were  likely  to  be  so  lasting  an  ornament.” 

These  objections  were  reduced  to  writing,  to  be  respectfully 
submitted  to  Johnson,  but  such  was  the  awe  entertained  of  his 
frown,  that  every  one  shrank  from  putting  his  name  first  to  the 
instrument ; whereupon  their  names  were  written  about  it  in  a 
circle,  making  what  mutinous  sailors  call  a Round  Robin.  John- 
son received  it  half  graciously,  half  grimly.  “He  was  willing,” 
he  said,  “ to  modify  the  sense  of  the  epitaph  in  any  manner  the 
gentlemen  pleased ; hut  he  never  ivould  consent  to  disgrace  the 
walls  of  Westminster  Ahhey  with  an  English  inscription.^^  See- 
ing the  names  of  Dr.  Warton  and  Edmund  Burke  among  the 
signers,  “ he  wondered,”  he  said,  “ that  Joe  Warton,  a scholar  by 
profession,  should  be  such  a fool ; and  should  have  thought  that 
Mund  Burke  would  have  had  more  sense.”  The  following  is  the 
epitaph  as  it  stands  inscribed  on  a white  marble  tablet  beneath  the 
bust : ~ • 

“OLIVARII  GOLDSMITH,! 

Poetse,  Physici,  Historici, 

Qui  nullum  fer6  scribendi  genus 
Non  tetigit, 

Nullum  quod  tetigit  non  ornavit : 

Sive  risus  essent  movendi, 

Sive  lacrymae, 

Affectuum  potens  at  lenis  dominator : 

Ingenio  sublimis,  vividus,  versatilis, 

Oratione  grandis,  nitidus,  venustus  : 

! The  following  translation  is  from  Croker’s  edition  of  Boswell’s 
Jolmson : — 


276 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Koc  monumento  memoriam  coluit 
Sodalium  amor, 

Amicorum  Mes, 

Lectorum  veneratio. 

Natus  in  Hibernia  Fornise  Longfordiensis, 

In  loco  cui  nonien  Fallas, 

Nov.  XXIX.  MDCCxxxi. ; ^ 

Eblanse  literis  institiitus  ; 

Obiit  Londini, 

April  IV.  MDCCLxxiv.’’ 

We  shall  not  pretend  to  follow  these  anecdotes  of  the  life  of 
(xoldsmith  with  any  critical  dissertation  on  his  writings ; their 
merits  have  long  since  been  fully  discussed,  and  their  station  in 
the  scale  of  literary  merit  permanently  established.  They  have 
outlasted  generations  of  works  of  higher  power  and  wider  scope, 
and  will  continue  to  outlast  succeeding  generations,  for  they  have 
that  magic  charm  of  style  by  which  works  are  embalmed  to 
perpetuity.  Neither  shall  we  attempt  a regular  analysis  of  the 


“OF  OLIA^ER  GOLDSMITH - 

A Poet,  Naturalist,  and  Historian, 

Who  left  scarcely  any  style  of  writing 
Untouched, 

And  touched  nothing  thaj  he  did  not  adorn  ; 

Of  all  the  passions, 

Whether  smiles  were  to  be  moved 
Or  tears, 

A powerful  yet  gentle  master  ; 

In  genius,  sublime,  vivid,  versatile, 

In  style,  elevated,  clear,  elegant  — 

The  love  of  companions. 

The  fidelity  of  friends. 

And  the  veneration  of  readers, 

Have  by  this  monument  honored  the  memory. 

He  was  born  in  Ireland, 

At  a place  called  Pallas, 

[In  the  parish]  of  Forney,  [and  county]  of  Longford, 

On  the  29th  Nov.,  1731. 

Educated  at  [the  University  of]  Dublin, 

And  died  in  London, 

4th  April,  1774. 

1 Not  correct.  The  true  date  of  birth  was  10th  November,  1728,  as  given 
on  page  10. 


CONCLUDING  DEM  AUKS, 


277 


character  of  the  poet,  hut  will  indulge  in  a few  desultory  remarks, 
in  addition  to  those  scattered  throughout  the  preceding  chaj)ters. 

Never  was  the  trite,  because  sage  apophthegm,  that  “ the  child 
is  father  to  the  man,’^  more  fully  verified  than  in  the  case  of 
Goldsmith.  He  is  shy,  awkward,  and  blundering  in  childhood, 
yet  full  of  sensibility;  he  is  a butt  for  the  jeers  and  jokes  of  his 
companions,  but  apt  to  surprise  and  confound  them  by  sudden  and 
witty  repartees  ; he  is  dull  and  stupid  at  his  tasks,  yet  an  eager 
and  intelligent  devourer  of  the  travelling  tales  and  campaigning 
stories  of  his  half-military  pedagogue ; he  may  be  a dunce,  but  he 
is  already  a rhymer ; and  his  early  scintillations  of  poetry  awaken 
the  expectations  of  his  friends.  He  seems  from  infancy  to  have 
been  compounded  of  two  natures,  one  bright,  the  other  blundering ; 
or  to  have  had  fairy  gifts  laid  in  his  cradle  by  the  ‘‘  good  people  ” 
who  haunted  his  birthplace,  the  old  goblin  mansion  on  the  banks 
of  the  Inny. 

He  carries  with  him  the  wayward  elfin  spirit,  if  we  may  so  term 
it,  throughout  his  career.  His  fairy  gifts  are  of  no  avail  at 
school,  academy,  or  college : they  unfit  him  for  close  study  and 
practical  science,  and  render  him  heedless  of  everything  that  does 
not  address  itself  to  his  poetical  imagination  and  genial  and  festive 
feelings ; they  dispose  him  to  break  away  from  restraint,  ±o  stroll 
about  hedges,  green  lanes,  and  haunted  streams,  to  revel  with 
jovial  companions,  or  to  rove  the  country  like  a gypsy  in  quest 
of  odd  adventures. 

As  if  confiding  in  these  delusive  gifts,  he  takes  no  heed  of  the 
present  nor  care  for  the  future,  lays  no  regular  and  solid  foundation 
of  knowledge,  follows  out  no  plan,  adopts  and  discards  those  recom- 
mended by  his  friends,  at  one  time  prepares  for  the  ministry,  next 
turns  to  the  law,  and  then  fixes  upon  medicine.  He  repairs  to 
Edinburgh,  the  great  emporium  of  medical  science,  but  the  fairy 
gifts  accompany  him ; he  idles  and  frolics  away  his  time  there, 
imbibing  only  such  knowledge  as  is  agreeable  to  him ; makes  an 
excursion  to  the  poetical  regions  of  the  Highlands ; and  having 
walked  the  hospitals  for  the  customary  time,  sets  off  to  ramble 


2T8 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


over  the  Continent,  in  quest  of  novelty  rather  than  knowledge. 
His  whole  tour  is  a poetical  one.  He  fancies  he  is  playing  the 
philosopher  while  he  is  really  playing  the  poet ; and  though 
professedly  he  attends  lectures  and  visits  foreign  universities,  so 
deficient  is  he  on  his  return,  in  the  studies  for  which  he  set 
out,  that  he  fails  in  an  examination  as  a surgeon’s  mate ; and 
while  figuring  as  a doctor  of  medicine,  is  outvied  on  a point  of 
practice  by  his  apothecary.  Baffled  in  every  regular  pursuit, 
after  trying  in  vain  some  of  the  humbler  callings  of  common- 
place life,  he  is  driven  almost  by  chance  to  the  exercise  of  his  pen, 
and  here  the  fairy  gifts  come  to  his  assistance.  For  a long  time, 
however,  he  seems  unaware  of  the  magic  properties  of  that  pen : 
he  uses  it  only  as  a makeshift  until  he  can  find  a legitimate  means 
of  support.  He  is  not  a learned  man,  and  can  write  but  meagrely 
and  at  second-hand  on  learned  subjects;  but  he  has  a quicK 
convertible  talent  that  seizes  lightly  on  the  points  of  knowledge 
necessary  to  the  illustration  of  a theme  : his  writings  for  a time 
are  desultory,  the  fruits  of  what  he  has  seen  and  felt,  or  what  he 
has  recently  and  hastily  read ; but  his  gifted  pen  transmutes 
everything  into  gold,  and  his  own  genial  nature  reflects  its  sun- 
shine through  his  pages. 

Still  unaware  of  his  powers  he  throws  off  his  writings  anony- 
mously, to  go  with  the  writings  of  less  favored  men ; and  it  is  a 
long  time,  and  after  a bitter  struggle  with  poverty  and  humiliation, 
before  he  acquires  confidence  in  his  literary  talent  as  a means  of 
support,  and  begins  to  dream  of  reputation. 

From  this  time  his  pen  is  a wand  of  power  in  his  hand,  and  he 
has  only  to  use  it  discreetly,  to  make  it  competent  to  all  his  wants. 
But  discretion  is  not  a part  of  Goldsmith’s  nature ; and  it  seems 
the  property  of  these  fairy  gifts  to  be  accompanied  by  moods  and 
temperaments  to  render  their  effect  precarious.  The  heedlessness 
of  his  early  days ; his  disposition  for  social  enjoyment ; his  habit 
of  throwing  the  present  on  the  neck  of  the  future,  still  continue. 
His  expenses  forerun  his  means ; he  incurs  debts  on  the  faith  of 
what  his  magic  pen  is  to  produce,  and  then,  under  the  pressure  of 


CONCLUDING  DEM  ARKS, 


279 


his  debts,  sacrifices  its  productions  for  prices  far  below  their  value. 
It  is  a redeeming  circumstance  in  his  prodigality  that  it  is  lavished 
oftener  upon  others  than  upon  himself : he  gives  without  thought 
or  stint,  and  is  the  continual  dupe  of  his  benevolence  and  his  trust 
fulness  in  human  nature.  We  may  say  of  him  as  he  says  of  one 
of  his  heroes,  “ He  could  not  stifle  the  natural  impulse  which  he 
had  to  do  good,  but  frequently  borrowed  money  to  relieve  the  dis- 
tressed ; and  when  he  knew  not  conveniently  where  to  borrow,  he 
has  been  observed  to  shed  tears  as  he  passed  through  the  wretched 
suppliants  who  attended  his  gate.”  . . 

“ His  simplicity  in  trusting  persons  whom  he  had  no  previous 
reasons  to  place  confidence  in,  seems  to  be  one  of  those  lights  of  his 
character  which,  while  they  impeach  his  understanding,  do  honor  to 
his  benevolence.  The  low  and  the  timid  are  ever  suspicious ; but 
a heart  impressed  with  honorable  sentiments,  expects  from  others 
sympathetic  sincerity.”  ^ 

His  heedlessness  in  pecuniary  matters,  which  had  rendered  his 
life  a struggle  with  poverty  even  in  the  days  of  his  obscurity,  ren- 
dered the  struggle  still  more  intense  when  his  fairy  gifts  had 
elevated  him  into  the  society  of  the  wealthy  and  luxurious,  and 
imposed  on  his  simple  and  generous  spirit  fancied  obligations  to  a 
more  ample  and  bounteous  display. 

“How  comes  it,”  says  a recent  and  ingenious  critic,  “ that  in 
all  the  miry  paths  of  life  which  he  had  trod,  no  speck  ever  sullied 
the  robe  of  his  modest  and  graceful  Muse?  How  amidst  all  the 
love  of  inferior  company,  which  never  to  the  last  forsook  him,  did 
he  keep  his  genius  so  free  from  every  touch  of  vulgarity  ? ” 

We  answer  that  it  was  owing  to  the  innate  purity  and  goodness 
of  his  nature ; there  was  nothing  in  it  that  assimilated  to  vice  and 
vulgarity.  Though  his  circumstances  often  compelled  him  to  asso- 
ciate with  the  poor,  they  never  could  betray  him  into  companion- 
ship with  the  depraved.  His  relish  for  humor  and  for  the  study 
of  character,  as  we  have  before  observed,  brought  him  often  into 
convivial  company  of  a vulgar  kind  ; but  he  discriminated  between 


1 Goldsmith’s  Life  of  Nash. 


280 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH, 


their  vulgarity  and  their  amusing  qualities,  or  rather  wrought  from 
the  whole  those  familiar  pictures  of  life  which  form  the  staple  of 
his  most  popular  writings. 

Much,  too,  of  this  intact  purity  of  heart  may  be  ascribed  to  the 
lessons  of  his  infancy  under  the  paternal  roof ; to  the  gentle,  benev- 
olent, elevated,  unworldly  maxims  of  his  father,  who  “ passing 
rich  with  forty  pounds  a year,”  infused  a spirit  into  his  child  which 
riches  could  not  deprave  nor  poverty  degrade.  Much  of  his  boy- 
hood, too,  had  been  passed  in  the  household  of  his  uncle,  the 
amiable  and  generous  Contarine  ; where  he  talked  of  literature 
with  the  good  pastor,  and  practised  music  with  his  daughter,  and 
delighted  them  both  by  his  juvenile  attempts  at  poetry.  These 
early  associations  breathed  a grace  and  refinement  into  his  mind 
and  tuned  it  up,  after  the  rough  sports  on  the  green,  or  the  frolics 
at  the  tavern.  These  led  him  to  turn  from  the  roaring  glees  of 
the  club,  to  listen  to  the  harp  of  his  cousin  Jane;  and  from  the 
rustic  triumph  of  ‘‘throwing  sledge,”  to  a stroll  with  his  flute 
along  the  pastoral  banks  of  the  Inny. 

The  gentle  spirit  of  his  father  walked  with  him  through  life,  a 
pure  and  virtuous  monitor  ; and  in  all  the  vicissitudes  of  his  career 
we  find  him  ever  more  chastened  in  mind  by  the  sweet  and  holy 
recollections  of  the  home  of  his  infancy. 

It  has  been  questioned  w^hether  he  really  had  any  religious  feel- 
ing. Those  who  raise  the  question  have  never  considered  well  his 
writings;  his  Vicar  of  Wakefield^  doA  his  pictures  of  the  Village 
Pastor,  present  religion  under  its  most  endearing  forms,  and  with 
a feeling  that  could  only  flow  from  the  deep  convictions  of  the  heart. 
When  his  fair  travelling  companions  at  Paris  urged  him  to  read  the 
Church  Service  on  a Sunday,  he  replied  that  “ he  was  not  worthy 
to  do  it.”  He  had  seen  in  early  life  the  sacred  offices  performed  by 
his  father  and  his  brother  with  a solemnity  which  had  sanctified 
them  in  his  memory ; how  could  he  presume  to  undertake  such 
functions  ? His  religion  has  been  called  in  question  by  Johnson 
and  by  Boswell : he  certainly  had  not  the  gloomy  hypochondriacal 
piety  of  the  one,  nor  the  babbling  mouth-piety  of  the  other ; but 


CONCLUDING  HEMARKS. 


281 


the  spirit  of  Christian  charity,  breathed  forth  in  his  writings  and 
illustrated  in  his  conduct,  give  us  reason  to  believe  he  had  the 
indwelling  religion  of  the  soul. 

We  have  made  sufficient  comments  in  the  preceding  chapters  on 
his  conduct  in  elevated  circles  of  literature  and  fashion.  The  fairy 
gifts  which  took  him  there  were  not  accompanied  by  the  gifts  and 
graces  necessary  to  sustain  him  in  that  artificial  sphere.  He  can 
neither  play  the  learned  sage  witli  Johnson,  nor  the  fine  gentleman 
with  Beauclerc  ; though  he  has  a mind  replete  with  wisdom  and 
natural  shrewdness,  and  a spirit  free  from  vulgarity.  The  blunders 
of  a fertile  but  hurried  intellect,  and  the  awkward  display  of  the 
student  assuming  the  man  of  fashion,  fix  on  him  a character  for 
absurdity  and  vanity  which,  like  the  charge  of  lunacy,  it  is  hard 
to  disprove,  however  weak  the  grounds  of  the  charge  and  strong 
the  facts  in  opposition  to  it. 

In  truth,  he  is  never  truly  in  his  place  in  these  learned  and 
fashionable  circles,  which  talk  and  live  for  display.  It  is  not  the 
kind  of  society  he  craves.  His  heart  yearns  for  domestic  life ; it 
craves  familiar,  confiding  intercourse,  family  firesides,  the  guileless 
and  happy  company  of  children  ; these  bring  out  the  heartiest  and 
sweetest  sympathies  of  his  nature. 

“ Had  it  been  his  fate,”  says  the  critic  we  have  already  quoted, 
“ to  meet  a woman  who  could  have  loved  him,  despite  his  faults, 
and  respected  him  despite  his  foibles,  we  cannot  but  think  that 
his  life  and  his  genius  would  have  been  much  more  harmonious  ; 
his  desultory  affections  would  have  been  concentred,  his  craving 
self-love  appeased,  his  pursuits  more  settled,  his  character  more 
solid.  A nature  like  Goldsmith’s,  so  affectionate,  so  confiding  — 
so  susceptible  to  simple,  innocent  enjoyments  — so  dependent  on 
others  for  the  sunshine  of  existence,  does  not  flower  if  deprived 
of  the  atmosphere  of  home.” 

The  cravings  of  his  heart  in  this  respect  are  evident,  we  think, 
throughout  his  career ; and  if  we  have  dwelt  with  more  significancy 
than  others  upon  his  intercourse  with  the  beautiful  Horneck 
family,  it  is  be(*ause  we  fancied  we  could  detect,  amid  his  playful 


282 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


attentions  to  one  of  its  members,  a lurking  sentiment  of  tenderness, 
kept  down  by  conscious  poverty  and  a humiliating  idea  of  personal 
defects.  A hopeless  feeling  of  this  kind  — the  last  a man  would 
communicate  to  his  friends  — might  account  for  much  of  that  fit- 
fulness of  conduct,  and  that  gathering  melancholy,  remarked,  but 
not  comprehended  by  his  associates,  during  the  last  year  or  two 
of  his  life ; and  may  have  been  one  of  the  troubles  of  the  mind 
which  aggravated  his  last  illness,  and  only  terminated  with  his 
death. 

We  shall  conclude  these  desultory  remarks  with  a few  which 
have  been  used  by  us  on  a former  occasion.  From  the  general 
tone  of  Goldsmith’s  biography,  it  is  evident  that  his  faults,  at  the 
worst,  were  but  negative,  while  his  merits  were  great  and  decided. 
He  was  no  one’s  enemy  but  his  own ; his  errors,  in  the  main, 
inflicted  evil  on  none  but  himself,  and  were  so  blended  with 
humorous  and  even  affecting  circumstances,  as  to  disarm  anger  and 
conciliate  kindness.  Where  eminent  talent  is  united  to  spotless 
virtue,  we  are  awed  and  dazzled  into  admiration,  but  our  admira- 
tion is  apt  to  be  cold  and  reverential ; while  there  is  something  in 
the  harmless  infirmities  of  a good  and  great,  but  erring  individual, 
that  pleads  touchingly  to  our  nature ; and  we  turn  more  kindly 
towards  the  object  of  our  idolatry,  when  we  find  that,  like  ourselves, 
he  is  mortal  and  is  frail.  The  epithet  so  often  heard,  and  in  such 
kindly  tones,  of  “ poor  Goldsmith,”  speaks  volumes.  Few,  who 
consider  the  real  compound  of  admirable  and  whimsical  qualities 
which  form  his  character,  would  wish  to  prune  away  his  eccentrici- 
ties, trim  its  grotesque  luxuriance,  and  clip  it  down  to  the  decent 
formalities  of  rigid  virtue.  ‘‘  Let  not  his  frailties  be  remembered,” 
said  Johnson ; “he  was  a very  great  man.”  But,  for  our  part, 
we  rather  say,  “ Let  them  be  remembered,”  since  their  tendency  is 
to  endear ; and  we  question  whether  he  himself  would  not  feel 
gratified  in  hearing  his  reader,  after  dwelling  with  admiration  on 
the  proofs  of  his  greatness,  close  the  volume  with  the  kind-hearted 
phrase,  so  fondly  and  familiarly  ejaculated,  of  “ Poor  Goldsmith.” 


A WORD  . ABOUT  THE  “LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH.” 


In  1818  Sydney  Smith  said  in  the  Edinburgh  Review:  “Lit- 
erature the  Americans  have  none  — no  native  literature,  we  mean. 
It  is  all  imported.  They  had  a Franklin,  indeed,  and  may  afford 
to  live  half  a century  upon  his  fame.  There  is,  or  was,  a Mr. 
Dwight,  who  wrote  some  poems,  and  his  baptismal  name  was 
Timothy.  There  is  also  a small  account  of  Virginia  by  Jefferson, 
and  an  epic  poem  by  Mr.  Joel  Barlow,  and  some  pieces  of  pleas- 
antry by  Mr.  Irving.  But  why  should  Americans  write  books 
when  a six  months’  passage  brings  them  in  their  own  tongue,  our 
sense,  science,  and  genius,  by  bales  and  hogsheads?  Prairies, 
steamboats,  gristmills,  are  their  natural  objects  for  centuries  to 
come.”  The  ink  was  scarcely  dry  on  this  sarcastic  sally,  when  the 
Sketch-Book  was  published.  What  would  the  “prophet  bishop” 
have  said  could  he  have  looked  forward  to  the  year  1849,  when 
Irving  was  to  write  a life  of  the  English  Goldsmith  that  was  to 
surpass  in  appreciativeness  anything  that  his  own  countrymen 
had  said  of  him? 

Irving,  when  asked  if  he  had  introduced  into  his  work  any 
anecdotes  not  in  Prior’s  or  Forster’s  Life  of  Goldsmith,  answered 
jokingly:  “No,  I could  not  invent  any  new  ones;  but  I have 
altered  the  setting,  and  have  introduced  Madame  D’Arblay’s  anec- 
dote of  Boswell  and  Johnson.  I have  also  made  more  of  the 
Jessamy  Bride,  by  adverting  to  the  dates  in  the  tailor’s  bills, 
and  fixing  thereby  the  dates  of  certain  visits  to  her.”  It  is  true 
that  Irving,  even  before  these  other  biographies  were  published, 
had  sketched  a Life  of  Goldsmith  to  preface  a Paris  edition  of 


283 


284  A WORD  ABOUT  THE  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH'' 


that  author’s  works.  Later  that  was  expanded,  with  additions 
from  Forster,  into  the  present  form.  Upon  its  publication  one 
critic  remarked,  “ You  may  have  read  the  story  a hundred  times, 
but  you  will  read  it  again  as  a new  thing  in  this  Biography 
of  Irving''  Irving  calls  this  book  “ work  done  in  an  off-hand 
manner,”  — which  perhaps  accounts  for  its  charm,  — and  its  incep- 
tion seems  to  have  been  a sudden  “literary  freak”  of  the  writer. 
His  publisher,  Mr.  Putnam,  tells  us  the  following  story  of  its 
origin : “ Sitting  at  my  desk  one  day,  Irving  was  looking  at 
Forster’s  clever  work,  which  I proposed  to  reprint.  He  remarked 
that  it  was  a favorite  theme  of  his,  and  he  had  half  a mind  to 
pursue  it,  and  extend  into  a volume  a sketch  he  had  once  made  for 
an  edition  of  Goldsmith’s  works.  I expressed  a hope  that  he  would 
do  so,  and  within  sixty  days  the  first  sheets  of  Irving’s  Goldsmith 
wwe  in  the  printer’s  hands.  The  press,  as  he  says,  was  ‘ dog- 
ging at  his  heels,’  and  in  two  or  three  weeks  the  volume  was 
published.” 

The  following  extracts  from  current  criticisms  of  the  work  show 
the  appreciation  and  enthusiasm  with  which  it  was  received.  The 
first  appeared  in  the  New  York  Tribune,  the  second  in  the  Christian 
Review  of  1850  over  the  name  of  Professor  Greene : — 

“ Everything  combines  to  make  this  one  of  the  most  fascinating 
pieces  of  biography  in  the  English  language.  . . . Mr.  Irving 
was  in  possession  of  abundant  materials  to  do  justice  to  the  sub- 
ject. He  had  only  to  insert  his  exquisite  magnetic  needle  into  the 
mass  to  give  a choice  and  shapely  form  to  all  that  was  valuable 
in  the  labors  of  previous  biographers.  . . . Henceforth  the  two 
names  of  Irving  and  Goldsmith  will  be  united  in  the  recollection 
of  the  delightful  hours  which  each  has  given  to  such  a host  of 
‘ happy  human  beings.’  ” 

“ If  there  is  anybody  of  whom  it  could  be  said  that  it  was  his 
duty  to  write  a life  of  Goldsmith,  it  is  Irving;  and,  often  as  we 
have  had  to  thank  him  for  happy  hours,  we  do  not  think  that  we 
ever  felt  so  grateful  to  him  for  anything  as  for  this.  We  have 
always  loved  Goldsmith,  his  poetry  and  his  prose,  and  everything 


A WORD  ABOUT  THE  LIFE  OF  GOLDSMITH.''  285 


about  him  . . and  yet  we  must  say  frankly,  that  we  never  under- 
stood Goldsmith’s  character  until  now.  We  have  been  vexed  at 
his  weakness,  and  have  blushed  at  his  blunders.  We  had  always 
wished  that  he  could  have  thrown  off  his  brogue,  and  had  never 
put  on  his  bloom-colored  coat.  . . . Thanks  to  Mr.  Irving,  our 
doubts  have  all  been  solved,  and  we  can  love  the  kind,  simple- 
hearted,  genial  man  with  as  much  confidence  as  we  admire  his 
writings.  . . . Mr.  Irving  is  just  the  man  to  see  how  weak  Gold- 
smith is  in  many  things,  how  wise  in  others,  and  he  sees  clearly 
how  closely  his  wisdom  and  his  weakness  are  allied.  . . . He  tells 
you  the  story  of  his  hero’s  errors  as  freely  as  he  does  that  of  his 
virtues,  and  in  a way  to  make  you  feel,  as  he  does,  that  a man  may 
have  many  a human  weakness  lie  heavy  at  his  door,  and  yet  be 
worthy  of  our  love  and  admiration  still.  . . . He  understands  his 
hero’s  character  thoroughly,  and  feels  that  if  he  can  only  make 
you  understand  it,  you  will  love  him  as  much  as  he  does.  There- 
fore he  draws  him  just  as  he  is,  lights  and  shadows,  virtues  and 
foibles  — vices  you  cannot  call  them,  be  you  never  so  unkind.  At 
his  blunders  he  laughs,  just  as  Goldsmith  himself  used  to  laugh  in 
recounting  them  ; and  he  feels  the  secret  of  his  virtues  too  justly  to 
attempt  to  gild  them  over  with  useless  embellishment.” 


NOTES 


References  are  to  pages. 


Preface.  Page  1.  several  years  since  : in  1824  Irving  prepared 
a sketch  of  Goldsmith’s  life  for  a series  of  English  Classics.  In  1840 
this  sketch  was  revised  for  an  American  edition  of  Goldsmith’s  works. 

2.  Tu  se’  lo  mio  maestro,  etc.  : “Thou  art  my  master,  and  my 
author  thou  ; thon  art  alone  the  one  from  whom  I took  the  beautiful 
style  that  has  done  honor  to  me”  (Dante’s  Inferno^  Longfellow’s 
translation).  This  acknowledgment  is  enough  to  make  the  reader 
eager  to  find  similarities  in  the  styles  of  Irving  and  Goldsmith.  On 
account  of  this  dedication,  Irving  has  been  called  “ a self-acknowl- 
edged imitator  ” of  Goldsmith.  He  said  himself,  however,  that  he  was 
“never  conscious  of  attempting  to  write  after  any  model.  No  man  of 
genius  ever  did.” 

Chapter  I.  9.  such  personal  kindness  : to  arouse  such  a feeling 
for  Goldsmith  is  Irving’s  purpose  in  his  biography ; it  may  be  said  to 
be  the  only  true  object  of  any  good  biography.  make  us  love  the 
man  at  the  same  time  that  we  admire  the  author  : at  the  end  of 
this  biography  the  pupil  may  decide  whether  this  conclusion  is  not  as 
true  of  Irving’s  style  as  of  Goldsmith’s.  transcripts  of  his  own 
heart  and  picturings  of  his  fortunes  : what  else  is  ever  the  source  of 
any  good  literature  ? What  else  is  personality  in  literature  ? Do  not 
these  two  opening  paragraphs  already  attract  the  reader  to  the  subject 
of  Irving’s  sketch  ? 

10.  Ireland  : the  family  of  Goldsmith  was  originally  English,  how- 
ever. And  passing  rich,  etc.  : quoted  from  The  Deserted  Village. 
an  old,  half-rustic  mansion  : is  there  anything  in  this  paragraph  sug- 
gestive of  any  of  Irving’s  stories  with  which  you  are  already  familiar? 

11.  Lissoy  : “ If  I go  to  the  opera,  I sit  and  sigh  for  Lissoy’s  fire- 
side and  Johnny  Armstrong's  Last  Good-night  from  Peggy  Golden’'"' 
(Goldsmith).  Man  in  Black:  an  autobiographical  sketch  in  the 
Citizen  of  the  World.  The  quoted  paragraphs  are  from  the  Citizen  oj 
the  World.,  Letter  xxvii. 


286 


NOTES, 


287 


12.  the  human  face  divine  : Paradise  Lost,  Book  ii:,  line  34. 

13.  motherly  dames:  tlie  keepers  of  the  “dame’s  schools”  of 
olden  times.  hornbook  : a written  parchment,  covered  with  a 
transparent  layer  of  horn  and  framed  in  wood.  a common  case  ; 
true  of  Scott,  Tennyson,  Burke,  Coleridge,  — in  short,  of  most  great 
imaginative  writers.  One  biography  of  Goldsmith  calls  him,  in  these 
early  days,  “a  stupid,  heavy  blockhead,  little  better  than  a fool.” 
Compare  that  summary  with  Irving’s  more  sympathetic  one. 

14.  For,  e’en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still : with  equal 
obstinacy  did  Goldsmith,  at  meetings  of  the  London  Club,  try  to  argue 
Dr.  Johnson  into  believing  that  he  moved  his  upper  jaw  when  he 
talked.  travellers’  tales  : do  the  words  suggest  any  passion  of  Irv- 
ing’s nature  ? Any  work  of  his  ? rapparees  : Irish  armed  plun- 
derers ; thence,  yagabonds. 

15.  scribbling  verses  : can  you  name  any  other  poets  who  had  the 
same  habit  ? sibylline  leaves  : books  professed  to  be  written  by 
the  sibyls  and  consulted  by  the  Romans  for  advice  upon  public  affairs. 
The  meaning  here  is,  pages  prophetic  of  Goldsmith’s  talent.  to 
poverty  and  the  Muse  : 

“ For  a man  should  live  in  a garret  aloof. 

And  have  few  friends,  and  go  poorly  clad, 

With  an  old  hat  stopping  the  chink  in  the  roof. 

To  keep  the  goddess  constant  and  glad.”  — Aldrich. 

16.  i^sop : the  writer  of  the  Fables;  often  portrayed  in  old 
books  as  deformed  and  ugly.  Bishop  Berkeley:  1685-1753; 
famous  in  the  eighteenth  century  as  the  philosopher  who  advanced  the 
proposition  that  “nothing  is,  but  only  seems  to  be.” 

17.  Shakspeare  : the  supposed  cause  of  Shakespeare’s  leaving 
Stratford  for  London  was  his  fear  of  being  prosecuted  for  stealing 
deer  from  a certain  Sir  Thomas  Lucy. 

18.  at  ease  in  his  inn  ; 

“ Let  the  world  wagge,  and  take  mine  ease  in  myne  Inne.”  — Hey  wood. 

“ Shall  I not  take  mine  ease  in  mine  inn  ? ” 

— King  Henry  IV,  Act  iii,  Scene  3. 

Chapter  II.  20.  1745  : Dobson,  Prior,  and  Forster  give  the  date 
as  1744.  pensioner  : there  were  five  orders  of  students  in  the 
English  universities,  — noblemen,  noblemen’s  sons,  fellow-commoners, 
pensioners,  who  paid  for  their  board  out  of  their  own  incomes,  and 


288 


NOTES. 


sizers  (who  worked  their  way  by  doing  menial  tasks).  He  was 
lodged  : the  window-frame  of  his  room  is  still  preserved  in  the  library 
of  Trinity  College. 

22.  A lad,  etc. : quoted  from  An  Inquiry  into  the  State  of-  Polite 
Learning  in  Europe. 

23.  a knack  at  hoping : the  last  straw  at  which  he  clutched 
throughout  his  life.  would  stroll : it  is  not  always  easy  to  separate 
Goldsmith’s  vanity  and  pride.  Did  the  incident  told  of  his  father  in 
the  beginning  of  the  chapter  indicate  that  Oliver  would  inherit  pride 
or  vanity  ? Edmund  Burke  : 1729-1797.  Probably  these  two  men 
of  genius  did  not  know  each  other  in  college.  catch-pole  : or 
catchpoll ; the  sheriff’s  officer. 

24.  corporal  punishment : one  of  the  privileges  of  masters  in  those 
days.  A similar  flogging  is  reported  in  the  university  life  of  Milton, 
at  Cambridge. 

25.  America : the  wording  of  the  sentence  implies  the  contempt 
in  which  the  States  were  held  in  those  days. 

26.  O.  S. : Old  Style.  In  1752  the  old  calendar  was  discarded  in 
England  for  the  new  Gregorian  Calendar.  Between  the  two  there  was 
a difference  of  twelve  days. 

27.  very  good-natured  and  had  no  harm  in  me  : a perfect  epit- 
ome of  Goldsmith’s  character. 

28.  To  be  obliged,  etc.  : Hawthorne’s  reason  for  not  entering  the 
ministry  was  equally  whimsical,  if  more  serious.  He  said,  “I  will  not 
be  a minister  to  live  upon  the  sins  of  mankind.”  touching  instance  : 
the  pathos  of  such  lines  as  these  lies  in  the  fact  that  one  who  could 
appreciate  such  simple  delights  led  a life  barren  of  them. 

29.  that  administered  to  the  imagination  : does  this  apply  equally 
well  to  Irving’s  writings  ? 

30.  Tony  Lumpkin,  etc.  : characters  in  She  Stoops  to  Cojiquer. 
The  song  is  in  Act  i.  Scene  2. 

Chapter  TIT.  31.  my  friends,  etc. : quoted  from  the  Citizen  of 
the  World.,  Letter  xxvii.  hero  of  La  Mancha  : Don  Quixote. 

32.  My  dear  mother  : in  this  letter  do  you  see  any  similarity  be- 
tween Goldsmith  and  Irving’s  Bip  van  Winkle  ? 

34.  a stout  oak  stick  : do  you  recall  any  similar  incident  in  The 
Vicar  of  Wakefield  f 

35.  poet-errant:  cf.  “knight-errant.” 

Chapter  IV.  36.  A new  consultation  . . . among  Goldsmith’s 
friends  : points  his  own  irresponsibility.  the  Temple  : originally  a 


NOTES. 


289 


lodge  of  the  Knights  Templars.  It  became  the  property  of  the  crowi\ 
in  1313  ; in  1346  it  was  leased  to  the  students  of  law  and  became  after- 
ward the  residence  of  lawyers  who  formed  themselves  into  “societies 
of  the  inns  of  court.”  fell  in  company  at  Dublin  : any  similar 
incident  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  f 

37.  To  a Young  Lady;  what  are  the  reasons  Irving  may  have 
had  for  ridiculing  this  stanza  ? Edinburgh  ; seat  of  the  university 
of  that  name. 

38.  added  . . . his  blessing : what  similar  incident  in  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  ? conjure  : why  is  the  word  well  chosen  ? Edin- 
burgh was  indeed  a place  of  sore  trial : so  it  proved  for  Burns,  many 
of  whose  weaknesses  are  parallelled  in  Goldsmith’s  character. 

39.  he  was  a prime  favorite,  etc. : has  Irving  succeeded  in 
making  him  “ a prime  favorite  ” with  the  reader  already  ? His 
usual  carelessness,  etc.  ...  At  another  of  these  meetings : of 
these  two  anecdotes,  which  is  really  of  value  in  characterizing  Gold- 
smith ? 

40.  yet  no  dog,  etc.  : Goldsmith’s  grace  was  at  times  equal  to  his 
humor.  tire  you  with  a description  : why  is  the  description  any- 
thing but  tiresome  ? 

42.  An  ugly  and  poor  man  ; like  Goldsmith  himself.  A humility 
that  is  almost  touching. 

43.  had  the  good  sense  to  appreciate  correctly ; as  Burns  could 
not.  like  me  more  as  a jester:  whose  fault  was  that?  “At 
first,”  says  he  : Citizen  of  the  Worlds  Letter  xxvii. 

44.  They  speak  French  : Latin  was  used  in  most  universities 
then.  Leyden  : seat  of  a university  in  Holland.  Albinus  : 1697- 
1770  ; a famous  lecturer  in  anatomy  and  surgery  in  the  university  at 
Leyden.  But  I stop  here  : why  ? 

45.  only  a vagabond ; which  of  the  two  was  Goldsmith  in  inten- 
tion ? In  reality  ? hoping  all  things,  believing  all  things  ? 
quoted  from  what  ? little  thinking : is  it  pleasing  to  have  Irving 
anticipate  the  story  ? 

Chapter  V.  46.  was  marched  off  ...  to  prison  : not  unlike 
Irving’s  experience  in  France.  Cf.  Life  and  Letters  of  Washington 
Irving^  Vol.  I,  Chapters  iv  and  v.  dozing  Strephon  : a lover  in 
Sir  Philip  Sidney’s  Arcadia. 

47.  There,  hills  and  rocks  : note  the  sharp  antithesis  here, 
rampire  : an  obsolete  form  of  “rampart.” 

49.  Versailles  : a town  a few  miles  south  of  Paris.  The  seat  ol 


290 


NOTES. 


the  costly  court  palace  of  Louis  XIV.  Mademoiselle  Clairon : a 
famous  French  actress  of  Goldsmith’s  time. 

50.  prophetic  eye  of  a poet : what  does  Irving  mean  by  the 
phrase  ? acquaintance  of  Voltaire  : read  Macaulay’s  portrait  of 
Voltaire,  in  his  Essay  on  Addison.  Fontenelle  : 1657-1757  ; a 
French  philosopher.  Diderot:  1713-1784;  a French  philosopher. 
Editor  of  the  EncyclopHie,  the  purpose  of  which  was  to  exalt  scien- 
tific research. 

51.  mongrel  gentleman  : why  is  the  phrase  so  expressive  ? 

52.  At  Padua  : no  record  there  of  the  conferring  of  a degree  upon 
Goldsmith. 

53.  both  sides  of  the  picture  : meaning  ? 

Chapter  VI.  54.  get  to  London  : in  a similar  plight  had  many 
English  writers  — Shakespeare,  Johnson,  Burke  — made  their  way  to 
the  capital. 

55.  The  clock : Citizen  of  the  World.,  Letter  cxvii.  Poor 

houseless  creatures : the  generosity  of  his  soul  pities  those  who  are 
in  the  same  condition  as  himself. 

56.  In  the  Vicar:  Chapter  xx.  Newgate:  the  London  prison, 
near  St.  Paul’s. 

57.  Southwark:  the  district  of  London  on  the  right  bank  of  the 
Thames,  in  the  southern  part  of  the  city.  doing  very  well : his 
pride  is  equal  to  his  independence.  Samuel  Richardson:  1689- 
1761;  “the  father  of  the  English  novel.”  Dr.  Young:  1681-1765  ; 
an  English  poet  made  famous  by  the  poem  here  alluded  to. 

58.  i^sculapius:  the  god  of  medicine.  Garrick  (David);  1717- 
1779 ; famous  English  actor ; member  of  Dr.  Johnson’s  Club,  which 
met  at  “The  Cheshire  Cheese.” 

59.  the  written  mountains : the  so-called  Sinaitic  inscriptions  on 
the  rocks  about  Mt.  Sinai.  These  in  Goldsmith’s  day  were  thought  to 
be  of  historical  importance.  A suggestion  here  of  Addison’s  desire 
to  measure  the  pyramids  ; see  Spectator.,  No.  1. 

Chapter  VII.  60.  You  had  better,  etc.;  notice  that  half  the 
charm  of  Irving’s  use  of  the  anecdote  lies  in  the  natural  abruptness 
with  which  it  is  introduced.  Monthly  Review,  . . . Critical 
Review : two  of  the  periodicals  which  marked  the  beginning  of  party 
literature  in  England.  Smollett:  1721-1771.  Richardson,  Field- 
ing, and  Smollett  were  the  makers  of  the  modern  novel.  Smollett’s 
greatest  work,  Boderick  Bandom,  was  publisher}  about  twenty  years 
before  TM  Vkar  of  Wakefield, 


NOTES. 


291 


61.  Dryden : 1031-1700;  the  greatest  poet  of  the  llestoration 
period.  Called,  in  his  favorite  haunt  of  Will’s  Coffee-house,  “Glorious 
John.”  Otway:  1052-1685;  author  of  two  pathetic  tragedies,  The 
Oyyhan  and  Veyiice  Preserved. 

62.  literary  hack : a literary  drudge  hired  to  write  upon  demand. 
Cf.  the  expression  “hack-horse.” 

Chapter  VIII.  63.  Mr.  John  Newbery:  1713-1707  ; part  author 
of  Goody  Two  Shoes  and  The  Travels  of  Tommy  Trip.  Ilis  son  pub- 
lished The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Goldsmith  refers  there  (Chapter 
xviii)  to  the  former  as  “the  philanthropic  bookseller.” 

64.  coffee-houses : read  chapter  on  coffee-houses  in  Ashton’s 
Social  Life  in  the  Beign  of,  Queen  Anne. 

65.  We  reproach  him  for  living  by  his  wit : consider  the  change 
in  the  social  standing  of  authors  which  has  come  about  in  the  last  two 
centuries. 

67.  maladie  du  pais:  homesickness.  Usher:  1580-1656;  a 
great  scholar  and  Primate  of  Ireland  ; the  discoverer  of  the  manu- 
script of  Csedmon’s  poems  as  printed  by  Junius  in  1650.  Johnny 
Armstrong’s  Last  Good-night:  the  ballad  of  the  hanging  of  the 
marauder  may  be  found  in  Gummere’s  Old  English  Ballads. 

68.  from  the  blue  bed  to  the  brown : this  expression  is  used  ver- 
batim in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Chapter  i.  Mohammed  shall 
go  to  the  mountain : Mohammed  told  his  people  he  would  call  a 
mountain  to  him  and  offer  prayer  from  the  top  of  it  before  them  all. 
The  people  came  together,  and  Mohammed  again  and  again  in  vain 
called  the  mountain  to  come  to  him.  But  he,  nothing  abashed,  said, 

‘ ‘ If  the  mountain  wdll  not  come  to  Mohammed,  Mohammed  will 
go  to  the  mountain.” 

Chapter  IX.  68.  the  Bee : it  appeared  October  6,  1759.  Eight 
weekly  numbers  only  were  published. 

69.  Raleigh  : refers  to  his  threat  to  burn  his  History  of  the  World 
because  it  sold  slowly.  Grub  Street : now  called  Milton  Street ; for 
many  years  the  abode  of  hack  writers.  literati : plural  of  literatus., 
rarely  used  in  the  singular. 

74.  Butler  (Samuel)  : 1612-1680 ; a poet  of  the  Restoration ; 
author  of  Hudibras.  Newton  (Isaac)  : 1642-1727  ; the  great 
scientist  of  the  Restoration ; discoverer  of  the  laws  of  gravitation. 
His  greatest  work  was  the  Principia.  Swift:  1667-1745;  the 
keenest  satirist  among  the  “Queen  Anne’s  men”;  author  of  GullP 
veTs  Travels. 


292 


NOTES. 


Chapter  X.  75.  Coromandel:  the  eastern  coast  of  India.  His 
imagination  was  ...  on  fire  : characteristic  sanguineness.  urg- 
ing the  importance,  etc.  : a possible  reason  why  Goldsmith  had  so 
few  friends. 

76.  Old  Bailey  : the  principal  court  of  London. 

77.  Surgeons’  Hall:  the  record  there  bears  this  entry:  “James 
Bernard,  mate  to  hospital : Oliver  Goldsmith,  found  not  qualified  for 
same.” 

78.  The  following  letter:  what  is  admirable  in  the  letter  ? What 
is  pitiable  ? How  does  Irving  defend  Goldsmith  here  ? Do  you  think 
Irving  is  too  lenient  in  his  judgments  ? 

80.  in  1820:  Irving  was  in  London  at  that  time,  so  the  reminis- 
cence may  be  a personal  one.  Rev.  Thomas  Percy:  1729-1811; 
editor  of  Beliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry^  published  in  1765. 

81.  Goldsmith’s  picture  of  the  lodgings  of  Beau  Tibbs : in 
Citizen  of  the  World,  Letter  iv. 

82.  Just  as  we  entered,  etc.  : from  Tales  of  a Traveller.  two 
hundred  and  fifty  books  : the  Inquiry  into  Polite  Learning. 

84.  How  delusive,  how  destructive  : cf.  the  philosophizing  of  Dr. 
Primrose  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.  Just  sit  down  as  I do,  etc. : 
find  an  example  before  this  of  a letter  written  according  to  that  rule. 
Is  there  any  drawback  in  such  advice  ? 

85.  The  window,  etc.  : this  projected  poem  was  never  finished, 
the  twelve  rules:  ascribed  to  Charles  I.  They  were:  “Urge  no 
healths  ; Profane  no  divine  ordinances  ; Touch  no  state  matters  ; Re- 
veal no  secrets  ; Pick  no  quarrels  ; Make  no  comparisons  ; Maintain 
no  ill  opinions  ; Keep  no  bad  company  ; Encourage  no  vice  ; Make  no 
long  meals  ; Repeat  no  grievances;  Lay  no  wagers.” 

Chapter  XI.  87.  Inquiry  into  the  Present  State  of  Polite  Learn- 
ing : part  of  its  importance  is  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was  one  of  the 
first  of  English  critical  writings. 

89.  Ishmaelites  : outcasts.  “ Ishmael’s  hand  will  be  against  every 
man,  and  every  man’s  hand  against  him  ” (Genesis  xvi,  12).  Dream- 
ing of  genius,  etc.  : from  The  Pace,  by  Cuthbert  Shaw.  Should 
Irving  tell  so  fully  the  career  of  Kenrick  ? St.  John’s  Gate  : a 
relic  of  an  old  priory  of  the  Knights  of  St.  John.  It  stands  near  the 
Charterhouse  on  St.  John’s  Lane. 

90.  David  Garrick  : to  Garrick  we  owe  the  restoration  of  the  most 
authentic  text  of  Shakespeare’s  plays  for  the  stage.  Walpole 
(Horace):  1717-1797.  Walpole’s  Letters  retail  with  fascinating  de- 


NOTES, 


293 


tail  all  the  literary  gossip  of  those  days.  Author  also  of  one  of  the 
earliest  English  novels,  The  Castle  of  Otranto.  the  ‘ Provoked 
Husband  ’ : begun  by  Vanbrugh  (1666-1726)  and  completed  by 
Colley  Cibber  (1671-1757). 

91.  a wit  and  a witch  : the  Anglo-Saxon  word,  witega.  had 
only  spoken  what  he  believed  to  be  the  truth  : characteristic  lack 
of  tact  on  Goldsmith’s  part. 

92.  Hume:  1711-1776;  the  philosopher-historian  of  the  time; 
author  of  Histoi'y  of  England  and  many  works  on  philosophy. 
Temple  Bar : a former  gateway  near  the  Temple,  built  by  Wren,  and 
removed  in  1878.  a candid  disputant : hardly  the  same  credit  is 
given  to  Goldsmith  by  Boswell,  in  his  Life  of  Samuel  Johnson. 

Does  Irving  seem  garrulous  anywhere  in  this  chapter  ? 

Chapter  XII.  93.  Guthrie  : the  modest  author  of  A History  oj 
the  World  from  the  Creation  to  the  Present  Time.  Murphy:  1727- 
1805;  an  actor  and  j)laywright.  Christopher  Smart:  1722-1771; 
the  most  pathetic  figure  of  all  the  Grub  Street  company,  who,  to  get  a 
living,  “leased  himself”  to  a monthly  journal  for  ninety-nine  years. 
Isaac  Bickerstaff : 1735-1812  ; an  Irish  playwright,  author  of  several 
popular  comedies.  A real  character,  not  to  be  confounded  with 
Swift’s  pseudonym  of  “ Bickerstaff.” 

94.  became  personally  acquainted  with  Dr.  Johnson  : in  the  fol- 
lowing paragraphs,  notice  the  balanced  construction  which  Irving  so 
naturally  uses  in  describing  such  opposite  characters. 

95.  Savage:  1698  (?)-1743  ; author  of  a poem  named  The  Wan- 
derer^ which  may  have  been  the  prototype  of  The  Traveller. 

96.  The  Great  Cham  : title  of  the  Prince  of  Tartary. 

97.  Churchill’s  Rosciad  : a satire  on  the  plays  of  the  day  ; takes 
its  name  from  Roscius,  a famous  Roman  comedian,  who  died  about 
62  B.c.  Ursa  Major  : what  other  nicknames  of  Johnson’s  are  given 
in  this  chapter  ? Steevens  : 1736-1800;  a critic  of  Shakespeare  and 
reviewer  of  contemporary  authors.  Warburton  (William)  : 1698- 
1779;  a writer  on  religious  subjects;  also  published  an  edition  of 
Shakespeare’s  works,  prior  to  Johnson’s  edition.  Aristophanes : 
the  great  Greek  writer  of  comedy  ; author  of  The  Clouds  and  The 
Frogs. 

Chapter  XIII.  98.  Thus,  in  Siberian  Tartary ; from  Citizen 
of  the  World.,  Letter  cviii. 

99.  Aleppo  : a district  of  Asiatic  Turkey.  The  capital  bears  the 


294 


NOTES. 


same  name.  Beau  Nash  : 1674-1761  ; an  English  leader  of  fash- 
ion ; sometimes  called  the  ‘‘  King  of  Bath.” 

100.  White  Conduit  House : in  Islington  ; an  attractive  resort 
for  Londoners’  excursions. 

101.  Rapin  : 1661-1725 ; a Erench  historian.  Carte  : 1686- 
1764;  an  English  historian.  Kennet 1660-1728 ; an  English 
bishop  ; author  of  A Compleat  History  of  England.  Lord  Chester- 
field : 1694-1773  ; author  of  the  famous  Letters  to  his  son.  Lord 
Orrery : 1707-1762  ; author  of  letters  on  the  life  and  writings  of 
Swift.  Lord  Lyttelton:  1709-1773;  2,vX\\or  oi  Letter's  from  a Per- 
sian in  England  to  his  Friend  in  Ispahan.  Patron  of  letters  who 
supported  Fielding  while  he  was  writing  Tom  Jones. 

Chapter  XIV.  105.  Hogarth  : 1697-1764  ; the  most  important 
painter  of  ‘‘  picture  dramas  ” of  his  day.  Irving  calls  him,  “ the  mor- 
alist and  philosopher  of  the  pencil.” 

106.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  : 1723-1792  ; the  great  portrait  painter  ; 
author  of  Discourses  on  Painting.  He  painted  the  finest  portrait  of 
Goldsmith.  style  in  writing  is  what  color  is  in  painting : can 
you  explain  and  illustrate  ? Name  any  poet  whose  love  for  color  is 
evident  in  his  choice  of  words.  Is  Irving  a lover  of  color  ? Does 
any  passage  so  far  illustrate  this  ? 

110.  Lord  Lansdowne  : 1737-1805  ; author  of  several  plays. 

111.  the  Rake’s  Progress  : title  of  a series  of  pictures  by  Hogarth. 

Chapter  XV.  114.  Of  all  kinds  of  ambition  : from  the  dedica- 
tion of  The  Traveller. 

118.  twenty  guineas  : Goldsmith’s  ill-starred  fate. 

Chapter  XVI.  118.  Nil  te  quaesiveris  extra:  “Ask  nothing 
more.” 

121.  Edwin  and  Angelina  : afterwards  introduced  into  The  Vicar 
of  Wakefield  (Chapter  viii). 

Chapter  XVII.  126.  a popularity  that  has  never  flagged : is 
that  true  ? Nestor  : the  experienced  patriarch  whose  judgments 
the  Greeks  regarded  as  infallible. 

127.  how  contradictory  : is  it  really  contradictory  or  natural  ? 
The  next  morning,  etc.  : quoted  from  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield.,  Chap- 
ter XXIV. 

129.  Cento : a composition  made  up  of  selections  from  the  works 


NOTES. 


296 


of  various  authors.  Dr.  Percy  himself  confirmed  the  assertions  of 
Goldsmith. 

Chapter  XVIII.  133.  he  has  fought,  etc. : quoted  from  For- 
ster’s Goldsmith. 

Irving  has  in  this  chapter  a happy  subject  in  the  picturesque  con- 
trast between  Johnson  and  Goldsmith.  Does  one  feel,  after  reading 
the  chapter,  as  if  conversation  were  indeed  a lost  art  ? 

Chapter  XIX.  138.  the  Jehu  : see  II  Kings  ix,  20. 

139.  deserves  particular  mention  : do  you  feel  that  Irving  cum- 
bers his  narrative  with  too  many  stories  of  unimportant  people  ? Do 
you  think  he  did  it  because  he  knew  that  they  succeeded  equally  well 
in  sidetracking  Goldsmith’s  attention  ? Sterne  : 1713-1768  ; author 
of  Tristram  Shandy.  See  note  to  page  60. 

140.  Goldsmith,  however,  was  guided  : a generous  excuse.  How 
far  is  it  justifiable  ? The  reader  by  this  time  must  be  aware  how 
ardently  Irving  always  defends  his  subject.  rare  Ben  Jonson  : 
1 573 (?) -1637  ; a contemporary  of  Shakespeare  ; author  of  Every 
Man  in  his  Humor.  “O  rare  Ben  Jonson”  was  the  only  epitaph 
placed  upon  his  tomb. 

Chapter  XX.  141.  Irving  must  have  related  Johnson’s  report  of 
his  encounter  with  the  king  to  throw  some  new  light  upon  Goldsmith’s 
character.  What  does  it  reveal  ? 

143.  Covent  Garden  : originally  the  convent  garden  of  Westmin- 
ster., The  theatre  erected  there  in  1731  was  built  by  Colman.  Drury 
Lane  : the  theatre  where  Garrick  began  the  Shakespeare  revival  in 
1747. 

145.  Whitehead  : one  of  the  least  deserving  of  poets  whom  whim- 
sical fate  made  a laureate.  To  choose  him  as  a referee  was  indeed 
an  insult  to  Goldsmith.  Was  either  Goldsmith  or  Garrick  in  a position 
to  criticise  the  other  ? 

Chapter  XXI.  146.  bibliopole  : a bookseller,  especially  one  of 
rare  and  curious  books. 

147.  Islington  : the  resort  also  of  Addison.  It  is  supposed  that 
the  signature  initial  “I”  of  some  of  the  Spectator  Papers  stood  for 
Islington. 

148.  Cockney  Elysium  : explain.  Note  Irving’s  aptness  in  coining 
epithets.  Junius  : the  authorship  of  the  Junius  Letters  w^as  and 
still  is  a matter  of  conjecture.  The  most  satisfactory  investigation 


296 


NOTES. 


points  to  Sir  Philip  Francis  (1740-1818).  Almost  every  writer  of  the 
day  was  accused  in  turn  of  the  authorship.  the  pen  of  Goldsmith 
might  be  readily  enlisted  : in  your  judgment  would  Goldsmith  have 
made  a successful  partisan  writer  ? One  recognizes  that  even  then 
the  pen  was  ‘‘mightier  than  the  sword.”  One  smiles  at  the  candor 
with  which  men  of  wealth  assumed  that  they  could  hire  genius.  The 
Romanists  a hundred  years  before  would  have  paid  anything  to  obtain 
Milton  as  their  literary  champion. 

Chapter  XXII.  151.  Goldsmith  greeted  him : with  generosity 
that  is  a refreshing  contrast  to  Garrick’s  pettiness. 

152.  Talleyrand:  1754-1838  ; a famous  French  diplomat. 

Chapter  XXIII.  154.  miraculous  draught : what  is  the  allusion 
suggested  ? 

155.  Blackstone’s  Commentaries:  the  authoritative  work  on  Eng- 
lish law,  published  in  1768.  Burke  refers  to  it  in  his  Speech  on  Con- 
ciliation with  America  : “I  hear  that  they  have  sold  nearly  as  many  of 
Blackstone’s  Commentaries  in  America  as  in  England.”  Hampton 
Court : fourteen  miles  from  London,  a distance  hard  to  reconcile  with 
the  energy  of  the  Goldsmith  whom  Irving  has  described  for  us. 

156.  squaring  his  expenses  according  to  his  means : a contrast 
which  points  a criticism  upon  Goldsmith’s  extravagant  habits. 

Is  there  any  incident  in  this  chapter  that  does  not  quite  accord  with 
Goldsmith’s  invariable  kindness  of  spirit? 

Chapter  XXIV.  158.  book-building:  how  different  from  book 
writing  ? 

160.  Much  of  that  poem  . . . was  composed  this  summer: 

biographers  of  Goldsmith  state  that  he  always  composed  slowly,  ten 
lines  being  considered  by  him  as  a good  morning’s  work. 

161.  At  church,  etc.:  what  do  you  think  was  the  basis  of  the 
tenderness  which  Goldsmith  felt  for  his  brother  ? and  led  the  way : 
why  is  this  italicized  ? 

Chapter  XXV.  162.  ever  the  vagabond’s  friend : why?  Hif- 
fernan : why  does  Irving  introduce  this  anecdote  of  Hiffernan  ? 
Kenrick  . . . Johnson  (1709-1784):  which  epigram  is  the  better, — 
Kenrick’s  in  verse  or  Johnson’s  in  prose  ? 

165.  Angelica  Kauffman : 1741-1807 ; a Swiss  painter,  from  whom 
Reynolds  generously  acknowledged  he  had  learned  “some  tricks  of 
?olor.” 


NOTES. 


297 


166.  the  Jessamy  Bride : a short  novel,  entitled  The  Jessamy 
Bride,  written  by  Frankfort  Moore,  will  add  much  to  the  student’s 
enjoyment  of  Goldsmith  and  his  contemporaries. 

Chapter  XXVI.  168.  Ranelagh,  Vauxhall : places  of  amusement 
mentioned  often  in  the  Spectator  Papers.  A full  account  of  them  can 
be  found  in  Austin  Dobson’s  Eighteenth  Century  Vignettes. 

169.  Lucius  Florus;  second  century  a.d.  Eutropius : fourth 
century  A. D.  Vertot:  seventeenth  century.  What  must  one  con- 
clude of  the  scope  of  Dr.  Johnson’s  reading  in  the  dialogue  with  Bos- 
well ? What  qualifications  had  Goldsmith  for  an  historian  ? Can  you 
name  any  historian  attractive  by  his  style,  but  unreliable  in  facts  ? 

170.  Pliny:  23-79  a.d.;  the  celebrated  Roman  naturalist.  The 
only  work  he  left  was  his  Natural  History.  Buffon : 1707-1788; 
published  his  NaOiral  History  in  1749.  He  was  the  father  of  modern 
natural  history. 

171.  with  the  eye  of  a poet  and  moralist:  what  naturalists  to-day 
are  liable  to  the  same  criticism  ? 

Chapter  XXVII.  174.  Royal  Academy  of  Arts  : the  society  con- 
sists to-day  of  forty  Royal  Academicians,  thirty  Associates,  and  two 
Associate  Engravers.  To  Mr.  Maurice  Goldsmith : what  passages 
of  this  letter  must  make  the  reader  smile  ? 

178.  Forsitan,  etc.:  ‘‘Perhaps  our  names  shall  one  day  be  en- 
rolled with  these.”  The  reader  may  like  to  look  ahead  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  this  prophecy  in  Johnson’s  epitaph  upon  Goldsmith,  placed 
in  Westminster  Abbey.  See  Chapter  xlv. 

Chapter  XXVIII.  178.  had  not  excited  : why  had  it  not  ? 

179.  we  see  nothing  in  it  incompatible,  etc.  : do  you,  even  if 
Irving  did  not  ? fond  pictures  of  early  friends : Goldsmith’s 
Traveller  and  The  Deserted  Village  mark  a stride  in  the  love  of 
nature  in  English  poetry.  He  does  not  use  natural  scenes  to  point  a 
moral  or  to  arouse  sober  reflections  on  human  life  ; but  he  paints  their 
beauties  because  he  personally  loves  them. 

183.  like  that  discovered  in  Gay’s:  Gay’s  “Chair  Poems,”  so 
called,  were  discovered  in  a secret  drawer  in  a chair  belonging  to  the 
poet.  Auburn : it  is  difficult  to  say  with  any  certitude  that  Gold- 
smith had  Lissoy  in  mind  when  he  was  describing  his  “deserted  vil- 
lage.” Why  confine  the  poet’s  pictures  to  one  place,  when  all  his  life 
he  had  been  receiving  impressions  from  hundreds  of  places,  all  of 
which  might  together  furnish  hints  for  one  ideal  village  ? Cf . Macau- 


298 


NOTES. 


lay’s  words  in  his  Essay  on  Goldsmith:  “The  village  in  its  happiest 
days  is  a true  English  village.  The  village  in  its  decay  is  an  Irish 
village.  Goldsmith  had  assuredly  never  seen  in  his  native  land  such 
a rural  paradise,  such  a seat  of  plenty,  content,  and  tranquillity,  as 
his  Auburn.  He  had  assuredly  never  seen  in  England  all  the  inhab- 
itants turned  out  of  their  homes  in  one  day  and  forced  to  emigrate  in 
a body  to  America.  The  hamlet  he  had  probably  seen  in  Kent ; the 
ejectment  he  had  probably  seen  in  Munster ; but,  by  joining  the  two, 
he  had  produced  something  which  never  was  and  never  will  be  seen  in 
any  part  of  the  world.” 

Chapter  XXIX.  186.  Parnell  (Thomas):  1679-1718;  an  Irish 
poet,  educated  at  Trinity. 

187.  perception  of  wit,  but  none  of  humor : what  is  the  difference 
between  wit  and  humor  ? 

Chapter  XXX.  193.  Lord  Bolingbroke : 1678-1781  ; an  unprin- 
cipled political  partisan.  a Capua  to  the  poet : the  luxury  of 
Capua  proved  to  be  disastrous  to  the  soldiers  of  Hannibal  after  they 
had  been  welcomed  within  its  gates. 

Chapter  XXXI.  196.  Chatterton  (Thomas)  : 1752-1770  ; the 
marvellous  boy  poet,  who  wrote  the  Rowley  poems  when  he  was  six- 
teen. Look  up  some  account  of  his  life  and  pathetic  death.  Ossian  : 
Macpherson  (1736-1796),  a Scotchman,  published  Fingal  as  a transla- 
tion from  Ossian,  an  early  Gallic  bard.  The  poem  is  considered  by 
many  a hoax,  but  Macpherson  gained  the  honor  of  burial  in  West- 
minster. Horace  Walpole  : see  note  to  page  90. 

199.  has  kept  its  ground : has  it,  down  to  the  present  time  ? 

Chapter  XXXII.  200.  Bunbury : if  the  student  has  already  read 
Carlyle’s  Essay  on  Burns^  he  will  remember  an  anecdote  told  there  of 
the  sympathy  evoked  from  Burns  when  he  saw  one  of  Bunbury ’s 
prints  of  a mourning  mother  and  child. 

Chapter  XXXIII.  203.  Prince  Eugene:  1663-1736;  with  Marl- 
borough, a leading  general  in  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Succession.  He 
took  Belgrade  in  1717,  from  the  Turks.  Jacobite  tendencies:  the 
Jacobites  were  the  adherents  of  James  II  after  he  abdicated  the 
throne,  and  of  his  descendants. 

204.  preux  chevalier : gallant  knight. 

206.  argumentum  ad  hominem  : bringing  an  argument  to  a per- 


NOTES. 


299 


sonal  application.  Malplaquet:  the  scene  of  the  great  victory  oi 
the  allied  English,  Dutch,  and  Austrian  forces  under  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  over  the  French  under  Villars. 

207.  the  Cock-lane  Ghost:  a great  mystery  in  London  in  1702. 
The  rapping  of  a certain  Parson’s  daughter  was  called  the  announce- 
ment by  the  spirits  that  one  Kent,  Parson’s  enemy,  had  killed  a 
woman  in  that  house.  Macaulay  says  Johnson  believed  in  the  trick. 

Chapter  XXXIV.  207.  Voltaire:  1694-1778;  the  most  brniiant 
of  the  French  writers ; author  of  histories,  philosophies,  dramas,  and 
essays. 

209.  Boileau:  1636-1711;  French  critic  and  poet.  Haec  studia, 
etc. : “ These  studies  are  our  companions  in  the  night,  in  our  travels, 
in  the  country.” 

The  contrast  between  Goldsmith  the  patronized  and  Goldsmith 
the  patron  is  well  brought  out  by  these  incidents  of  Craddock  and 
McDonnell. 

211.  the  Lusiad : the  song  of  the  Lusians;  the  national  epic  of 
Portugal,  written  by  Camveus.  Hugh  Boyd : once  credited  with 
the  authorship  of  the  Junius  Letters.  Sir  William  Chambers : 
1726-1796;  a famous  architect. 

Chapter  XXXV.  215.  Mrs.  Thrale : a talented  London  woman 
of  whose  house  Johnson  was  an  inmate  for  many  years.  She  pub- 
lished Anecdotes  of  Johnson^  in  1786,  and  Letters  of  Johnson^  in 
1788.  Mrs.  Vesey  : a select  London  society  met  at  her  house  every 
Tuesday,  where  in  the  evening  they  were  joined  by  the  Turk’s  Head 
Club.  Mrs.  Montagu : a social  leader  and  an  author.  Johnson 
said  of  her,  “ Mrs.  Montague  is  a very  extraordinary  woman  ; she  has 
a constant  stream  of  conversation  and  it  is  always  impregnated  ; it 
has  always  meaning.”  weary  heart:  do  you  think  Irving’s  sympa- 
thy for  Goldsmith  is  always  justifiable  ? 

216.  the  alleged  vanity : has  Irving  succeeded  in  making  us  believe 
that  Goldsmith’s  vanity  and  self-consciousness  can  only  be  alleged  ^ 
being  unwarrantable : do  you  think  there  was  any  malice  in  the  joke  ? 

217.  where  Boswell  had  made  a fool  of  himself:  the  following 
appeared  in  the  London  Magazine,  1769,  signed  by  Boswell : “Of  the 
most  remarkable  masks  upon  the  occasion  was  James  Boswell,  in  the 
dress  of  an  armed  Corsican  chief.  He  entered  the  amphitheatre  about 
twelve  o’clock.  On  the  front  of  his  cap  was  embroidered  in  gold  let- 
ters, Viva  la  Liberta ; and  on  one  side  of  it  was  a handsome  blue 


300 


NOTES. 


feather  and  cockade,  so  that  it  has  an  elegant,  as  well  as  a warlike, 
appearance  ? He  wore  no  mask,  saying  that  it  was  not  proper  for  a 
gallant  Corsican.  As  soon  as  he  came  into  the  room,  he  drew  universal 
attention.”  He  had  written  a poem  to  recite,  hut  no  one  in  the  crowd 
would  listen  to  him. 

218.  Scrub : man  of  all  work  to  Lady  Bountiful,  in  Earquhar’s 
Beaux’  Stratagem.  His  duties  were  as  follows:  “On  a Monday  I 
drive  the  coach  ; of  a Tuesday  I drive  the  plough  ; of  a Wednesday  I 
follow  the  hounds ; of  a Thursday  I dun  the  tenants ; on  Friday  I go 
to  market;  on  Saturday  I draw  warrants;  and  on  Sunday  I draw 
beer.”  On  all  days  he  was  “ consumedly  in  love.”  Malagrida:  an 
Italian  priest,  burned  as  a heretic  in  1761  at  Lisbon.  a picture  of 
Goldsmith’s  whole  life : just  what  did  Walpole  mean  ? 

220.  Baretti:  1719-1789;  an  Italian  scholar  who  translated  some 
of  Johnson’s  writings  into  Italian  and  who  assisted  him  in  preparing 
the  Dictiojiary. 

222.  the  Pantheon  : a music  hall  of  low  repute. 

Chapter  XXXVI.  223.  loo:  a popular  game  of  cards  in  those 
days.  The  poem  quoted  here  is  only  one  of  Goldsmith’s  happy  hits  in 
the  making  of  occasional  verse.  Who  was  our  great  American  occa- 
sional poet  ? What  are  the  requisites  of  such  verse  ? It  may  be 
interesting  here  to  read  Irving’s  Christmas  stories,  remembering  that 
he  is  credited  with  introducing  Christmas  into  our  literature. 

227.  the  lord  of  misrule : his  reign  extended  from  All-Hallow’s 
Eve,  October  31,  to  Candlemas  Day,  February  2.  All  these  weeks 
were  reckoned  in  the  feast  of  Christmas. 

What  makes  the  perfection  of  the  last  paragraph  of  the  chapter  ? 

Chapter  XXXVII.  230.  All  the  world,  etc. : the  contrast  betweerx 
this  and  the  reception  given  to  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  is,  in  the  light 
of  subsequent  years,  most  amusing  to  us. 

231.  the  son  of  Hystaspes : Darius  I.  He  was  one  of  the  seven 
who  agreed  to  dethrone  the  king  and  place  one  of  their  number  in  his 
place.  They  agreed  to  meet  outside  the  city  in  the  morning,  and  he 
whose  horse  should  neigh  first  should  be  king.  By  an  artful  con- 
trivance of  his  groom,  at  the  rising  of  the  sun  the  horse  of  Darius 
neighed  before  all  the  others.  The  story  is  told  by  Herodotus. 

234.  Ride,  si  sapis  : “ Laugh,  if  you  are  wise.” 

235.  a loser : Goldsmith  received  only  about  five  hundred  pounds 
from  his  benefit  nights,  and  a small  fee  for  the  publication  of  the  play 


NOTES, 


301 


in  book  form.  I know  of  no  comedy,  etc.;  is  Johnson’s  definition 
of  comedy  an  adequate  one  ? Would  it  fit  the  comedies  of  Shake- 
speare ? Test  The  Meveliant  of  Venice  by  his  reciuirement. 

Have  we  anything  in  current  literature  which  corresponds  to  these 
newspaper  squibs  in  Johnson’s  time  ? 

Chapter  XXXVIII.  236.  Vous  vous  noyez  par  vanite : “You 
harm  yourself  by  your  vanity.” 

237.  Brise  le  miroir,  etc.:  “Break  the  faithless  mirror  which 
conceals  from  you  the  truth.” 

239.  Is  Goldsmith’s  answer  in  any  way  a vindication  of  the  attack 
made  upon  him  ? 

Chapter  XXXIX.  240.  Holy-Week  : the  week  preceding  Easter 
Sunday.  Miss  Burney:  Frances  Burney  (1752-1840),  author  of 
Evelina  and  Diary  and  Letters  of  Madam  D'Arhlay.  She  contributed 
many  anecdotes  of  Johnson  to  Boswell’s  biography. 

241.  Why,  sir,  etc.  : which  of  these  two  replies  of  Dr.  Johnson  to 
Boswell  is  the  truer  estimate  of  Goldsmith  ? On  the  13th  of  April, 
etc.  : does  this  paragraph  really  contribute  anything  to  the  chapter? 

242.  Paoli : 1725-1807 ; the  head  of  the  Corsican  government 
while  it  was  at  war  with  Genoa. 

243.  he  should  write  so  as  he  may  live  by  them,  etc.  : was  this  a 
direct  thrust  at  Goldsmith.  Can  you  see  in  this  conversation  why  the 
great  Dictator  was  so  attracted  to  “ Goldie  ” ? 

247.  pilgarlick  : a forsaken  wretch,  or  merely  a vague  term  of 
reproach. 

Carlyle,  in  his  Essay  on  Johnson^  has  defended  Boswell  as  follows : 
“The  man  had  an  ‘ open  sense,’  an  open  loving  heart,  which  so  few 
have  : where  excellence  existed,  he  was  compelled  to  acknowledge  it ; 
was  drawn  towards  it,  aiid  . . . could  not  but  walk  with  it,  — if  not 
as  superior,  if  not  as  equal,  then  as  inferior  and  lackey  ; better  so  than 
not  at  all.  . . . Consider  what  an  inward  impulse  there  must  have 
been,  how  many  mountains  of  impediment  hurled  aside,  before  the 
Scottish  Laird  could,  as  humble  servant,  embrace  the  knees  ...  of 
the  English  Dominie  ! . . . And  now  behold  the  worthy  Bozzy,  so 
prepossessed  and  held  back  by  nature  and  by  art,  fly  nevertheless  like 
iron  to  its  magnet,  whither  his  better  genius  called  ! ” Read,  if  pos- 
sible, Macaulay’s  estimate  of  Boswell  in  his  Essay  on  Johnson.  Could 
Irving  have  found  two  better  foils,  although  so  different,  to  set  off  the 
character  of  Goldsmith,  than  Johnson  and  Boswell  ? 


302 


NOTES. 


Chapter  XL.  249.  Lord  Charlemont : 1728-1799 ; an  Irish 

statesman. 

250.  ex  cathedra  : ‘‘from  the  chair,”  i.e.  with  authority. 

251.  Launcelot  Gobbo  : it  was  not  Launcelot  in  The  Merchant  of 
Venice^  hut  Launce  in  The  T'wo  Gentlemen  of  Veroyia^  who  delivered 
the  famous  charge  to  his  dog.  See  Act  ii,  Scene  3. 

From  this  chapter  we  see  that  Goldsmith  was  not  the  only  butt 
of  the  jokes  of  the  Club.  Recognition  of  this  fact  modifies  to  some 
degree  the  ridiculous  pictures  given  of  Goldsmith’s  foibles. 

Chapter  XLI.  252.  Bennet  Langton  : 1737-1801  ; see  Chapter 
XIV,  page  109. 

255.  jeux  d’ esprit : sparkles  of  wit. 

Chapter  XLII.  256.  Dr.  Burney  : father  of  Fanny  Burney. 

258.  sturdy  independence  : was  it  that  or  the  “ heedlessness  with 
which  he  conducted  his  literary  undertakings  ” that  lost  him  the 
pension  ? 

259.  It  was  all  . . . set  down  to  sheer  envy  and  uncharitable- 
ness : what  characteristic  of  Goldsmith  made  this  judgment  seem  fair 
to  those  who  made  it  ? 

260.  Beattie  and  his  book  will  be  forgotten,  . . . while  Vol- 
taire’s fame  will  last  forever  : a true  prophecy.  Was  it  cool  judg- 
ment or  irritation  that  led  Goldsmith  to  stumble  into  the  criticism  ? 

Chapter  XLIII.  261.  Ugolino:  died  1289;  he  deserted  his 
native  city,  Pisa,  in  the  war  with  Genoa,  in  1284.  Later  he  was  pun- 
ished by  starvation.  Dante  tells  the  story  in  his  Inferno.  The  picture 
is  said  to  have  been  painted  without  any  thought  of  Ugolino ; but 
either  Goldsmith  or  Burke,  on  seeing  it,  remarked  the  similarity 
between  the  painting  and  Dante’s  description,  whereupon  Sir  Joshua 
gave  it  that  name. 

265.  my  honest  little  man  : was  this  borrowing  of  Goldsmith’s  an 
honest  deed  ? How  would  he  have  excused  it  in  his  own  eyes  ? How 
may  we  excuse  it  ? 

Chapter  XLIV.  265,  Scarron  : 1610-1660;  a French  writer  of 
burlesque  of  the  seventeenth  century. 

268.  Woodfall:  the  printer  of  the  Junius  Letters.  be-Ros- 
ciused  : see  note  to  page  97,  on  Rosciad.  Bens  : an  allusion  to 
Ben  Jonson,  referring  in  its  plural  form,  doubtless,  to  those  friends  of 
his  who  gathered  at  the  Mermaid  Tavern  when  the  Elizabethan  drama 


NOTES, 


303 


was  at  its  height.  Here,  Hermes  : cf.  with  these  lines  of  Garrick’s, 
the  following  from  Lowell’s  Fable  for  Critics.  Have  the  latter  any 
phrases  or  lines  suggestive  of  the  former  ? 

“ What ! Irving  ? thrice  welcome,  warm  heart  and  fine  brain, 

You  bring  back  the  happiest  spirit  from  Spain, 

And  the  gravest  sweet  humor  that  ever  were  there 
Since  Cervantes  met  death  in  his  gentle  despair  ; 

Nay,  don’t  be  embarrassed,  nor  look  so  beseeching,  — 

I shan’t  run  directly  against  my  own  preaching. 

And,  having  just  laughed  at  their  Raphaels  and  Dantes, 

Go  to  setting  you  up  beside  matchless  Cervantes ; 

But  allow  me  to  speak  what  1 honestly  feel,  — 

To  a true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick  Steele, 

Throw  in  all  of  Addison,  minus  the  chill. 

With  the  whole  of  that  partnership’s  stock  and  good-will. 

Mix  well,  and,  while  stirring,  hum  o’er  as  a spell. 

The  fine  old  English  Gentleman,  simmer  it  well. 

Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  liking,  then  strain. 

That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  remain. 

Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a soul  it  receives 
From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down  through  green  leaves. 
And  you’ll  find  a choice  nature,  not  wholly  deserving 
A name  either  English  or  Yankee,  — just  Irving.” 

270.  shifted  his  trumpet:  in  his  later  years  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds 
was  deaf.  Charles  Fox  : 1749-1806  ; a prominent  statesman  at  the 
time  of  the  American  Revolution. 

272.  Hazlitt  (William)  : 1778-1830  ; an  English  essayist. 

273.  Ninon  de  I’Enclos  : 1616-1706 ; a French  woman,  famous 
for  her  wit  and  beauty  even  to  old  age.  The  Jessamy  Bride  : why 
do  you  think  Irving  had  so  much  sentiment  for  the  story  of  Goldsmith 
and  the  Jessamy  Bride  ? 

Chapter  XLY.  277.  fairy  gifts  : notice  how  well  Irving  keeps 
up  the  figure  of  the  “fairy  gifts”  throughout  the  chapter,  thus  giving 
a unity  to  his  “ desultory  remarks.” 

282.  We  shall  conclude : do  you  like  Irving’s  concluding 

paragraph  ? 

How  can  you  summarize  Irving’s  attitude  toward  Goldsmith  ? Can 
you  see  any  specific  reasons  why  Irving  is  sometimes  called  the 
“American  Goldsmith”  ? 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  AND  TOPICS. 


Chapters  I and  II. — Topic  for  discussion  : Goldsmith’s  Prepara- 
<^1011  for  Life. 

Why  are  the  early  years  of  a biography  sure  to  be  interesting? 
Why  do  biographers  always  lay  special  stress  upon  these  early  years  ? 
What  do  anecdotes  and  quotations  add  to  these  chapters  ? Is  Irving 
trying  to  enumerate  facts  or  to  portray  a personality  here  ? Does  any 
other  personality  than  that  of  Goldsmith  become  apparent  in  these 
chapters  ? How  does  Irving  avoid  intruding  himself  into  his  account 
of  Goldsmith’s  boyhood  ? What  do  you  consider  the  chief  duty  of  a 
biographer?  Read  the  first  five  paragraphs  of  Carlyle’s  Essay  on 
Burns  and  decide,  as  you  read,  if  Irving  lives  up  to  the  standard  there 
given.  Is  the  modern  biography,  compiled  almost  entirely  from  a 
man’s  diary  and  writings  and  letters,  always  the  most  impartial  one  ? 
Does  Irving’s  opening  paragraph  describe  the  style  of  any  one  else 
than  Goldsmith  ? 

Chapter  TIL  — What  is  Irving’s  object  in  introducing  Goldsmith’s 
letters  here  ? In  Goldsmith’s  letter  to  his  mother,  do  you  detect  any 
similarities  between  his  wit  and  Irving’s?  Has  Irving  elsewhere 
depicted  any  characters  with  the  same  qualities  which  he  attributes 
to  Goldsmith  ? Why  was  Goldsmith  a good  letter  writer  ? Why  is 
letter  writing  a lost  art  to-day  ? Characterize  Irving’s  humor  by  four 
or  five  adjectives. 

Chapter  IV.  — Topic  for  discussion:  The  Sad  Side  of  Goldsmith’s 
Days. 

What  makes  up  the  humor  of  Goldsmith’s  letter  to  Bryanton  ? 
Read  the  letter  aloud  to  somebody,  as  a test  of  its  power  to  amuse. 

Chapter  V.  — What  paragraph  in  this  chapter  shows  best  the 
happy-go-lucky  Goldsmith  ? Tally  all  of  Goldsmith’s  experiences 
with  those  of  George  Primrose  in  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield^  Chapter 
XX.  What,  evidently,  made  the  largest  part  of  Goldsmith’s  literary 
capital  ? 


304 


;:iUGGESTlVE  QUESTIONS  AND  TOPICS, 


305 


Chapter  VI.  — What,  in  this  chapter,  elicits  genuine  sympathy  for 
Goldsmith  ? 

Chapter  VII.  — What  failings  of  genius  do  you  discover  portrayed 
in  this  chapter  ? Can  you  name  other  writers  who  have  had  similar 
weaknesses  ? Do  you  think  that  “ genius  is  a law  unto  itself”  ? 

Chapter  VIII.  — Topic  for  discussion  : Contrast  the  Social  Position 
of  Authors  in  the  Eighteenth  and  Twentieth  Centuries. 

Chapter  IX.  — Judging  from  the  personal  characteristics  of  Gold- 
smith which  appear  in  these  letters,  decide  the  following  questions : 
Was  he  a flatterer  for  a purpose?  Was  he  self-conscious?  Had  he 
too  much  self-pity  ? Did  he  overestimate  his  own  abilities  ? Did  he 
ever  belittle  them  ? Why  is  he  always  accusing  his  friends  of  for- 
getting him  ? What  do  you  feel  to  be  the  greatest  lack  in  the  man  ? 
Would  you,  as  a friend  to  Goldsmith,  have  acknowledged  the  appeal 
in  these  letters  ? 

Chapter  X. — Topics  for  discussion:  Goldsmith  at  Green-Arbor 
Court ; Goldsmith’s  Affection  for  his  Own  People. 

Chapter  XI. — Discuss  Goldsmith’s  first  serious  works,  stating 
their  names,  the  occasion  of  their  writing,  the  history  of  their 
publication,  the  reasons  for  their  success. 

Chapter  XII.  — What  constitutes  the  charm  of  this  chapter  ? 
What  anecdotes  best  portray  Johnson  for  us?  Why  are  Johnson 
and  Goldsmith  together  a delightful  picture  ? What  attracted  each 
to  the  other  ? Was  the  friendship  one-sided  in  the  amount  of  benefit 
either  derived  from  it  ? 

Chapter  XIII. — Notice  how  Johnson,  Boswell,  and  Goldsmith 
set  off  one  another’s  characteristics.  Note  that  this  biography  is  a 
portrayal  not  only  of  Goldsmith,  but  of  most  of  the  great  men  of  his 
day. 

Chapter  XIV.  — Why  does  Irving  delight  so  much  in  this  subject 
of  the  Literary  Club  ? Compare  with  this  Addison’s  description  of  the 
Spectator  Club  {Paper  No.  2).  Which  is  the  better  subject  ? Why  ? 
Which  is  the  better  description  ? Why  ? 

Chapter  XV. — Topics  for  discussion  : How  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field was  given  to  the  World ; Goldsmith’s  First  Success  as  a Poet. 


306  SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  AND  TOPICS. 


Chapter  XVI. — Topic  for  discussion:  The  Sad  Tale  of  the  Be- 
ginning and  the  End  of  Dr.  Goldsmith. 

Chapter  XVII.  — After  reading  this  chapter,  discuss  the  character 
of  Goldsmith’s  times,  under  the  following  heads  : the  position  of  pub- 
lishers ; the  jealousies  among  writers ; the  character  of  the  drama  of 
the  Augustan  Age.  Was  Goldsmith’s  idea  of  a comedy  the  correct 
one  ? 

Chapter  XVIII.  — Do  you  think  Irving  enjoyed  writing  this  chap- 
ter ? Give  the  reasons  for  your  answer.  Do  you  think  conversation 
is  a lost  art  in  these  days  ? 

Chapter  XIX.  — Topic  for  discussion  : The  Sources  of  Goldsmith’s 
Literary  Material. 

Chapter  XX. — Topics  for  discussion:  The  Launching  of  The 
Good-natured  Man;  The  Literary  Dictator  of  London  and  his  King. 

Chapter  XXI.  — Topic  for  discussion  : The  Dependence  and  Inde- 
pendence of  a Half-successful  Writer. 

Chapter  XXII. — ^ Topic  for  discussion:  Intrigues  of  Writers  in 
the  Eighteenth  Century. 

Chapter  XXIII. — Topic  for  discussion:  The  “Pound  Foolish” 
Goldsmith. 

Chapter  XXIV.  — Specify  exactly  what  this  chapter  contributes 
to  your  impression  of  Goldsmith. 

Chapter  XXV.  — Topics  for  discussion  : Purple  and  Fine  Linen  ; 
The  Jessamy  Bride. 

Chapter  XXVI.  — Topics  for  discussion  : An  Imaginary  Conver- 
sation between  Goldsmith  and  John  Burroughs  ; Goldsmith’s  Version 
of  “The  Spider  and  the  Fly.” 

Chapter  XXVII.  — Write  Maurice  Goldsmith’s  answer  to  Oliver’s 
Letter. 

Chapter  XXVIII.  — Read  The  Deserted  Village.  What  new 
characteristics  of  Goldsmith  do  you  feel  in  the  lines  ? Do  you  think 
Goldsmith  ever  saw  Auburn  ? 

Chapter  XXIX.  — Topics  for  discussion  : The  Discontented  Trav- 
eller ; Hickey’s  Joke  and  Goldsmith’s  Retaliation. 

Chapter  XXX, —Topic  for  discussion:  An  Absent-minded  Poet, 


SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  AND  TOPICS. 


307 


Chapter  XXXI. — Look  up  some  account  of  Chatterton  and  his 
work  (see  the  article  in  Encyclopoedia  Britannic(i).  How  does  the 
personality  of  Goldsmith  show  in  his  judgment  of  the  boy  poet  ? 

Chapter  XXXII.  — Topic  for  discussion : Goldsmith  on  a Vaca- 
tion. 

Chapter  XXXIII.  — Discuss,  under  the  following  heads,  the  value 
of  anecdotes  as  used  in  this  biography  : their  value  in  portraying  the 
character  of  the  subject ; their  value  in  portraying  the  character  of 
his  times ; their  value  in  portraying  his  contemporaries ; the  atmos- 
phere they  contribute  to  the  biography ; their  intrinsic  interest. 
Johnson  said  upon  this  point,  ‘'The  business  of  a biographer  is  to 
give  a complete  account  of  the  person  whose  life  he  is  writing,  and 
to  discriminate  him  from  all  other  persons  by  any  peculiarities  of  char- 
acter or  sentiment  he  may  happen  to  have.” 

Chapter  XXXIV.  — Topic  for  discussion : Goldsmith  in  the 
Country. 

Chapter  XXXV.  — Topic  for  discussion  ; Goldsmith  as  a Musician 
(recall  information  on  this  topic  from  previous  chapters). 

Chapter  XXXVI.  — Topic  for  discussion  ; Goldsmith,  the  Genius 
of  Trivialities. 

Chapter  XXXVII.  — What  were  the  influences  which  could  make 
or  mar  a drama  in  Goldsmith’s  time  ? 

Chapter  XXXVIII.  — What  speciflc  incidents  in  the  book,  so  far, 
have  thrown  light  upon  the  literary  rivalries  of  Goldsmith’s  age  ? Was 
the  life  of  an  author  then  more  or  less  public  than  now  ? more  or  less 
interesting  ? more  or  less  adventuresome  ? What  advantages  has  the 
modern  author  lost  ? What  advantages  has  he  gained  ? 

Chapter  XXXIX.  — Do  you  think  this  chapter  is  an  unnecessary 
repetition  of  the  points  made  in  Chapters  XII  and  XIII  ? Would 
you  be  willing  to  cut  the  chapter  out  of  the  book?  Give  reasons  for 
your  answer.  Do  you  think  Irving  expresses  enough  of  his  debt  to 
Boswell  for  many  of  his  stories  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  the  Club  ? 

Chapter  XL.  — Topic  for  discussion  : The  Vanity  of  Dr.  Johnson. 

Chapter  XLI.  — What  is  your  opinion  of  Boswell  ? Do  you  think 
that  Goldsmith  derived  from  Dr.  Johnson’s  companionship  a pleasure 
commensurable  with  the  accompanying  discomforts?  Is  Goldsmith 


308  SUGGESTIVE  QUESTIONS  AND  TOPICS. 


belittled  in  your  mind  by  these  stories  of  Boswell’s  ? Cite  one  or  two 
instances  where,  in  spite  of  a silenced  tongue,  Goldsmith  seems  superior 
to  Dr.  Johnson. 

Chapter  XLII.  — Does  Irving  show  Goldsmith  in  an  enviable  light 
here  ? Do  you  think  his  purpose  is  to  be  just  in  showing  the  unattrac- 
tive side  of  Goldsmith’s  personality  with  the  attractive,  or  is  it  to  throw 
light  upon  the  misunderstandings  on  the  part  of  his  friends  under 
which  Goldsmith  often  labored? 

Chapter  XLIII.  — What  in  this  chapter  shows  more  plainly  than 
any  other  section  of  the  book  Irving’s  true  sympathy  for  Goldsmith  ? 
Consider  what  treatment  this  incident  of  borrowing  from  Garrick 
might  have  received  from  an  unsympathetic  biographer. 

Chapter  XLIV.  — Topics  for  discussion  : The  Poet’s  Last  ‘‘Blaze 
of  Imagination  ” ; The  Pathos  of  Goldsmith’s  One  Love  Story. 

Chapter  XLV. — Discuss  the  quotation  from  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
remembering  the  “sorrow,  sickness,  or  pressure  of  unfortunate  cir- 
cumstances” under  which  the  following  wrote:  Dante,  Milton,  Pope, 
Stevenson,  Poe,  Longfellowq  Bryant.  Can  you  state  the  affliction  in 
each  of  these  cases  and  give  the  title  of  the  work  which  was  brought 
forth  under  it  ? Can  you  name  other  similar  cases  ? 

Discuss  Irving’s  summary  of  the  causes  of  Goldsmith’s  successes 
and  failures. 


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